


The Devil's Cut

by chief_johnson



Series: Devilish Series [3]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Addiction, Angry Sex, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/F, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Drama, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 202,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25394581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson
Summary: To call it an eventful year would be an understatement. But as 2020 draws to a close, Olivia and Amanda are ready to put the Catskills behind them and focus on their future together. Then what should have been a simple errand turns into a deadly encounter that threatens to tear them apart forever. They say men plan and God laughs. Women plan and he pulls the trigger. (Third installment of the Devilish trilogy. Sequel toThe Devil You Know&Idle Hands.)
Relationships: Olivia Benson/Amanda Rollins
Series: Devilish Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1367455
Comments: 140
Kudos: 126





	1. Prologue: Needs Must

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sure where to start with this author's note. That long fic you've heard me blathering about on Twitter and dropping hints for in the Little Devils for the past year? Yeah, this is it. Took me thirteen and a half months to write it, but it's finally finished. All 200k+ words (40 chapters) of it. Officially the longest thing I've ever written. I'm so excited, I'm so excited! I'm so... scared! _*sobs in Jessie Spano*_ Ok, but seriously...
> 
>  **Here's what you need to know** : Third installment of the Devilishverse trilogy. Takes place in the winter after _Idle Hands_ and after most of the Little Devils (everything I've posted from February onward is set at the end of or after this story). So if you're reading and say to yourself, "Self, I do believe she already used that in one of the Little Devils," just know that it was almost certainly written here first. Also, if you're expecting the lighthearted fare found in most of those stories, you're going to be disappointed. This one's extremely angsty, kids. Ex. Treme. Ly. It's more in the vein of TDYK & IH, although not quite as action based (though there's some of that, too). I'd categorize it as a psychological drama. Lots of exploration about what makes these characters tick and how they would handle a romantic relationship. That said, this prologue is pure, unadulterated smut. Keep in mind that it was only the second full-on sex scene I'd ever written for them at the time, sweet summer child that I was. There are, I think, three-ish more smutty scenes woven throughout the story after this, most of them in some of the later chapters, FYI. Also expect some hurt/comfort and some major conflict. Quite a bit of both, actually.
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings** : None of the ones listed in the additional tags above apply to this chapter. I will include trigger warnings with the appropriate chapters as I post them.
> 
>  **Also** : I'm breaking this fic into four parts because it's damn long and, well, because I want to. It gave me an excuse to make five separate covers (one overall cover & one for each part). I'm posting the overall cover with this opening scene, and I'll post the Part 1 cover with Chapter 1. A million thank yous to my beta Amy for the all-nighters, the suggestions & research, and for witnessing my slow descent into madness as I worked on this story, without having me committed. And thank you to Warren Leight for his brief participation as a consultant, however unwitting. Oh, AND. See if you can spot the little surprise in this chapter. :)
> 
> **Disclaimer** : I own nothing but a few lowly original characters. Don't sue me, just hire me to write for your show pls.

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[ ](https://imgur.com/JzpPccp)

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#  PART I: The Angel's Share

**. . .**

**PROLOGUE:** Needs Must

* * *

Somehow, cherry-flavored lube never quite captured the essence of real cherries. The satisfaction of plucking fruit from stem, gathering the sumptuous dollop into your mouth, popping it between your teeth to release that burst of juicy sweetness. It was an experience not replicable in liquid form—and yet, Amanda could not stop licking the stuff off her fingers, wrist, and most of her forearm.

"Shall I leave you two alone?" Olivia asked wryly, as she watched Amanda lapping at her own arm, practically right down to the elbow, complete with loud slurping noises. She glanced to her naked body, which had been subjected to much the same treatment until the lube and the dildo arrived on the scene, and back up at Amanda expectantly.

Amanda slowed the hand she was rubbing along the textured shaft, moistening the brightly colored silicone at a tantalizing speed. Magenta was about the least sexy and least natural shade of pink for a phallus like the one she was holding, but she and Olivia had both given the toy their enthusiastic stamps of approval since its purchase several weeks earlier. (It had been Amanda who happened across the website, Olivia who sauntered up behind her, peered over her shoulder, and clicked Add to Cart.) And judging by Olivia's current expression—not to mention her damp thighs, rubbing against Amanda with increasing need, and her erect nipples, a delicious cinnamon brown that begged to be tasted once again—she was more than ready to get their money's worth for the fourth or fifth time in as many weeks.

Not to say they hadn't relied on other methods along the way. Amanda was quite pleased to discover that Olivia's sexual appetite could be just as voracious as her own. Like this morning, when she awoke to sounds of the other woman moaning in her sleep, apparently having one hell of a wet dream. Amanda was usually the one to wake up horny, so it was a nice little surprise when Olivia had rolled over, pinned her shoulders to the mattress, and kissed her senseless in lieu of a simple _good morning_.

"Oh, you're not going anywhere, Cap'n," she said now, in a sultry tone with a tinge of Georgia sass. She had it on good authority that her accent, though not nearly as pronounced as it was ten years ago, tickled more than just her captain's eardrums. Whenever she wanted to get her way, in the bedroom or outside of it, all she had to do was lay the drawl on extra thick, and Olivia became darn near compliant. Of course, Amanda only ever used her Southern charms for good, not evil.

Well, mostly.

Stroking the smooth, rounded head of the dildo a few more times than necessary, she grinned as a feral growl escaped Olivia's throat. Someone was mighty impatient today, it seemed. "Which end you want?" she asked, drawing the torture out just a teensy bit longer. She knew full well which side of the dual vibrator Olivia preferred, and it wasn't the smaller probe meant to stimulate the G-spot—even though that side afforded the most control. No, tough and assertive as she was, Captain Benson liked to be fucked. Hard.

It had taken close to a year for that revelation to make itself known. Up until then, Amanda had treated the woman with kid gloves, afraid of triggering the flashbacks that still haunted Olivia on occasion. She'd assumed Olivia's difficulty in reaching climax stemmed from those past traumas—and an inability to surrender herself completely—but after an especially vigorous bout of roleplay (she was the savvy private eye, Olivia the femme fatale who showed up one stormy night in a trench coat . . . and nothing else), she discovered that sometimes her captain just needed a little more oomph.

More often than not, they still made love, slow and sensual and achingly tender. Bodies trembling, skin on fire, mouths and senses so filled with each other, separation felt like its own kind of death. It was the closest Amanda had ever come to drowning, and she would gladly let the waves overtake her a thousand times more— and smile doing it. But she was also glad to pound Olivia till she screamed, hips bucking against her and nails clawing at her back, if that's what it took. And judging by the glint in those ravenous brown eyes, that was precisely what Olivia had in mind.

"Don't make me beg, 'Manda." A note of pleading could be heard in the captain's voice, even as she made the request. Even as she slid a hand down the soft plain of her belly, over the small thatch of dark pubic hair, and between her parted thighs, fingertips massaging her swollen clit. She moaned softly, eyelashes fluttering closed.

"Oh," Amanda sighed, momentarily forgetting where she was, as she watched Olivia touching herself. She had never gotten off on seeing a partner masturbate; at least not until the first time she witnessed Olivia taking matters into her own hands after growing impatient with too much foreplay. It was one of the most erotic moments of Amanda's life, all defenses stripped away and just that raw desire—which she helped create—flowing off Olivia like a rich, heady perfume. And here it was again.

The throbbing in Amanda's groin and the heat that pooled there brought her back to reality, and she guided the shorter curved end of the sex toy towards herself. It slid inside easily, the artificial lubricant almost unnecessary in light of what her body had naturally produced. She gave a small, contemplative hum when she reached the hilt, which boasted a textured pad for the wearer to grind against during thrusts. Olivia opened her eyes at the sound, gaze flitting downwards for a moment, her irises so dark they looked black in the dim bedroom lighting. She angled her pelvis subtly in Amanda's direction, practically purring with anticipation. "Please," she rasped, still managing to sound like she was giving an order, despite the entreaty.

That was fine with Amanda. When it came to her captain, that's exactly what she aimed to do—please.

"Mm, so polite." She reached for Olivia's hand, easing it away from its lazy rotation, and bringing the glistening fingertips to her lips. One at a time, she placed a finger in her mouth and sucked it clean, root to tip. She'd always rolled her eyes at men who claimed to like the way their partner tasted—those fellas had watched way too much porn—but that was before she'd tasted Olivia. Her favorite flavor, and the one that never failed to make her mouth water, no matter how often she indulged.

"And so sweet," she murmured, teasing Olivia with the cock-shaped end of the vibrator until she whimpered ("'Manda . . .") and tried to bear down on the head, grasping Amanda by the hips to hold her steady. After a few more excruciatingly long strokes, Amanda entered her a little at a time, allowing Olivia to set the pace by rocking to meet each gentle thrust.

"My sweet girl." She leaned down to kiss the delicate cleft between Olivia's knitted brows—her captain was always so serious—then blew out a shaky breath when a pair of soft, warm hands wandered up to squeeze her breasts. Her nipples were already standing at attention, only a few shades of pink lighter than the dildo and pulsing almost as vibrantly as her clit, and she felt every stroke of Olivia's thumbs, every devilish tweak, all the way down to her toes. She jerked her hips, grinning just as devilishly at the sharp gasp it elicited from below.

Olivia bit her bottom lip, a slightly pained expression crossing her pretty features, like a thundercloud on a clear blue day. But when her eyes opened, dark and flashing, she had become the storm. She squeezed Amanda's breasts a bit more cruelly and commanded, "Fuck. Again."

There were many fine balances Olivia kept so well she made it look easy: tough cop and loving mother, respected leader and trusted friend, hardass and soft touch. Somewhere along the way, she'd also learned to walk the line between pleasure and pain so skillfully, Amanda sometimes couldn't tell the difference. Nor did she care to—not when it felt so fucking good either way. "On?" she asked, finger already at the discreet power switch located underneath the vibrator.

"Yes." Olivia nodded adamantly, her thighs tensing around Amanda as she waited for the toy to buzz to life. The pulse it delivered was identical on both sides and had taken some getting used to, for Olivia more so than Amanda. A joke about who had the bigger vibrator collection got bandied around a few times after that, but Amanda didn't mind claiming to be an old hand at battery-operated self-love. She liked that Olivia was a bit more sensitive, a bit less experienced in certain ways. If nothing else, it gave Amanda the illusion of being the alpha female in the relationship—at least, for a very short while. Her captain learned damn fast.

Hissing approval, Olivia arched her body towards the vibrations when they began. Her breasts swayed enticingly with the movement, fuller now that she was back to a healthy weight, appetite restored. God, she had great tits. Still firm and naturally plump at fifty-two. Amanda had the urge to skim her tongue over every inch of that smooth, freckled skin, to apply her teeth and kisses to the taut nipples, to bury her face in the gentle swells and not come up for air, maybe ever. But her mouth was soon occupied with Olivia's, when the woman pulled her down for a passionate kiss that she also hoped would never end.

As their tongues struggled for dominance, Amanda started to rock slowly, rhythmically, driving the cock deeper. Olivia's kisses, at first direct and unyielding, became progressively sloppy with every hitch. Finally, Amanda won the battle, soothing Olivia's captured tongue with her own. But the victory didn't last long—Olivia gripped her ass in both hands, jerking her forward several times to a much brisker tempo.

"Jeez—" Amanda gulped down the remaining "-us!" of her surprised oath, briefly rendered speechless by the stimulation both inside and out. Her eyes had rolled back in her head for a minute there, she was pretty sure. Panting, she rested her forehead against Olivia's, pale hair mingling with darker chocolaty strands. "I don't wanna hurt ya, darlin' . . ."

"Does it look like I'm hurt?" Olivia asked breathlessly, giving another quick jerk and rolling her hips to meet it. Her entire body was flushed, eyes heavy-lidded and midnight dark as she gazed up from the pillow, head tipped back and lips sensually parted.

Nope. It did not look that way at all.

Unable to pry her gaze from the elegant curve of Olivia's neck, Amanda dipped down to press several heated kisses along its length. Though tempted, she refrained from sucking or biting; Olivia thought hickeys were tacky-looking, and Amanda's ass would be in a sling, rather than those strong, capable hands, if she left any behind. That didn't stop her from nibbling at a dainty bit of earlobe when she reached it, whispering, "Turn over, then. All fours."

Olivia swallowed hard, the flicker of apprehension on her face almost imperceptible, at least to an untrained eye. But Amanda had been there through the months of recovery, through the night terrors and subsequent crying jags, through the tentative first touches, to the no holds barred intimacy they presently shared. After being bound to a table and groped by her rapist—then subjected to much the same by the young girl she'd tried to rescue—Olivia had developed strong reservations to being approached from behind, sexually or otherwise. It had taken a while for Amanda to even graduate from "little spoon" to "big spoon." Now, she could walk up behind Olivia and wrap her in a bear hug, straddle her waist for a back rub, or yes, occasionally pleasure her from that position. It would be the first time they had tried with the toy, though. If they tried.

"Or we can stay like this," she said gently, smoothing the hair back from Olivia's forehead. She did the same by her ear, dotting kisses to the shell-like helix. (Even that part of her was pretty.) "It's okay if you don't want—"

"I want to." Olivia turned her head and kissed Amanda lightly on the tip of the nose. Then she reached down to slide out the dildo, delicate lines creasing her forehead, tummy sucked in. She smiled when Amanda folded her lips together tightly, the vibration and the wiggling almost too much to withstand.

Add to that the sight of Olivia, as lovely as any of the reclining nudes Amanda had studied in Art History—far lovelier, in fact—rising from among the pillows and rumpled sheets, gathering the mussed waves of her dark lavender-scented hair over one shoulder, and tucking both long, shapely legs beneath her, and it was like watching one of those paintings come to life. Olivia Benson: a living, breathing masterpiece.

She cast an uncertain look back at Amanda, who was settling onto her knees, the vibrator switched off until they were ready. Amanda left a trail of soft kisses along her bare shoulder, nuzzled into her sweet, warm neck, and implored, "Trust me, baby?"

"Yes."

"We can stop anytime."

"I know."

Once they got started, they didn't stop. Their slow and cautious movements—as they both made sure the other was comfortable enough to proceed—quickly gave way to a steady, energetic cadence that rattled the headboard. Vaguely, thoughts clouded by the lust that consumed her mind and body, Amanda regretted not being able to watch Olivia's face as she rode her. But the position did have its charms, allowing Amanda better access, more control of the dildo, and Olivia's firm backside grinding into her pelvis certainly didn't hurt. It created a deep and elusive friction that she strived towards, every muscle in her body clenching harder with each thrust, until she was poised on the edge, like a roller coaster about to drop.

She tried to breathe through it, not wanting to finish too early; although, given Olivia's labored breathing and lengthy moans, she wasn't far behind. There was this noise the captain made when she was about to come—part whimper, part sigh of relinquishment—but Amanda hadn't heard it yet. Not that she could hear much, for the blood raging in her ears.

"Fas—" Olivia gasped, flicking her hair aside to glance back over her shoulder. Her eyes glittered like onyx. "—ter."

She licked her lips and let her head loll forward when Amanda obeyed, making them both grunt softly. Amanda took her by the hips, steadying herself as she drove in and out. Sometimes all it took to send her hurtling towards orgasm was a provocative image at just the right moment, and on this particular occasion, it was the sight of Olivia's flesh—all those magical, delectable curves—dimpling beneath her fingertips. And then that sound, the one that meant she'd brought Olivia to the brink of climax. The one reserved for Amanda only.

She gave in with a sharp cry, as if she'd been struck, and barely noticed Olivia reaching around to grab her hand, pulling. For a few seconds, sheer bliss—like a hot shot of pleasure injected straight to the vein. It ended far too soon, but the pressure began to build once again when she realized what her hand was being used for. Olivia had placed two of the fingers against her clit, rubbing them to coax out her own orgasm. Amanda took charge, circling the delicate spot the way she knew Olivia liked. She couldn't resist adding her own little flourish, which involved dragging her fingers back and forth, with just the right amount of . . .

"Oh my—" Olivia pushed firmly at the back of Amanda's hand, then gripped her wrist tight. "Fuck, do that—"

Amanda did it again, harder and faster, the dildo working at the same pace. It was a damn good thing she was coordinated. And physically fit. Olivia showed her appreciation for both as well, a powerful shudder rippling down her spine and the sounds of ecstasy pouring from her lips. She reached back and clutched at Amanda's thigh, fingernails biting in deep. The sharp jabs were like a jolt of electricity to every erogenous zone Amanda knew of—and then some.

She came a second time, aware of nothing but the woman she was wrapped around, literally and figuratively. Her piquant scent, her sweat-slick skin with its lovely golden undertones, her throaty voice that itself was pure sex. Miles and miles of Olivia, disappearing into the horizon. Amanda followed as far and as long as she could, her dazzled senses finally hitting their limit when Olivia, after one last tremor, sagged beneath her, panting heavily.

"Mm, off," Olivia said, fumbling for the switch nestled somewhere between them. She expelled a short little huff, sounding mildly offended when Amanda clicked the power button and carefully slid the dildo out. But she gave a warm hum of approval to the kisses Amanda peppered over her back and shoulders, and repaid the kindness with an even warmer kiss on the lips as they collapsed alongside each other on the pillows.

They made out for several minutes more, basking in the afterglow of what just might have been the best sex of Amanda's entire life. She still hadn't caught her breath completely by the time Olivia snuggled into her arms, sighing deeply against her chest.

"I think I just had a religious experience," Amanda husked, chafing lightly at Olivia's skin with shaky hands. "Jesus, babe, how many times did you come?"

Olivia snorted at the question, but peered up with a wicked grin and displayed three fingers. She twitched them back and forth, taunting.

"Seriously? I only got two!" Amanda gave Olivia's shoulder a weak nudge. "Okay, lie back, we gotta go again."

"Slow your roll there, pal," Olivia said with a laugh, returning the nudge as if she were fending off the advances. Neither of them had moved an inch, all tangled limbs and limp, sated bodies. "This isn't the Orgasm Olympics."

Amanda scoffed and dropped a kiss on top of Olivia's head. "Have you met me?" she asked, muffled by the soft brown hair her lips were buried in. "I always go for the gold."

"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to settle for the silver this time, my love." Olivia's voice sounded hazy, and when she patted Amanda on the chest, her hand went lax, loosely cupping one boob. She was fading fast. "If you want your fiancée to be able to walk straight . . ."

The rest was incoherent as Amanda scratched lightly at Olivia's back. Never failed to put her captain—her _fiancée_ , as Olivia liked to remind her on a daily basis, as if she could forget—right to sleep. "Hate to break it to you, darlin', but there's nothing straight 'bout what we just did," Amanda murmured, grinning to herself.

Five minutes later, after easing out of bed to grab a snack, Amanda was halfway to the kitchen when a sleepy voice called out, "Sweetheart?"

"Yeah?"

"Bring the Oreos."

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 1: When the Devil Drives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note, as posted on FF.net: Who's ready for an update? Seems like as good a day as any. I'm going to try and keep to a posting schedule of Sunday/Wednesday/Friday, btw. I don't want to promise that I'll always get it right on time, especially if I come across something I think needs more revision, but I'll try to keep it fairly close. ~~Thank you for the prologue reviews. I'm glad y'all enjoyed the smut. And yay for the two (I think?) reviewers who noticed that Liv & Amanda are FRIGGIN' ENGAGED IN THIS FIC, YEAH BABY, lol.~~ That was the surprise I mentioned in the last a/n. There will be a lot more on that subject throughout this story, don't worry. I was going for shock and awe and apparently fell short at, like, huh nifty. :P Anyway, shouldn't be anything too triggering in this chapter, unless you are extra sensitive about your love of country music (and dude, I feel you). Let the games begin.

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[ ](https://imgur.com/DR55puh)

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## CHAPTER 1: When the Devil Drives

**. . .**

To Olivia, the cacophony pouring from her stereo speakers sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher from the _Peanuts_ cartoons, singing along to plunky banjo music. Wah wah wah wah ping-a-ting-ting. As if the lively instrument somehow mitigated the nasally voice that accompanied it, when really all it did was make her think of sadistic backwoods inbreds, and grown men squealing like pigs, a la _Deliverance_. She hated that movie.

She hated country music more. For Amanda's sake, she had tried to listen to the genre, which she admittedly knew very little about, and keep an open mind. There wasn't a lot in the way of Southern culture to be found in Manhattan, and she hadn't even heard an actual country song ( _not_ country and western, as Amanda had informed her, in no uncertain terms, when she'd first called it such) until she was nineteen or twenty. That had been plenty for Olivia. Then she'd met Miss Georgia Peach herself—met her, dated her, fallen in love with her, and a few weeks ago, gotten engaged to her. Now, they shared almost everything. Including control of the car stereo.

"Maybe we could listen to something besides . . . that?" Olivia scrunched up her nose and gestured to the in-dash touchscreen, as if the noise it produced were foreign and unidentifiable. Not that far from the truth, really. "I'm kind of burnt out on Wynonna Ray McEntire there."

Amanda paused in the middle of drumming out a beat on her thighs and gave a curt little laugh. "Okay, first of all, you just named, like, three separate artists. Two of whom are actually good. I mean, Reba McEntire? She's literally the Queen of Country Music. She's . . . Reba."

Lips tightly compressed, Olivia nodded like she was taking the argument into serious consideration. It was best to play along when Amanda started in on such matters. Otherwise you ended up being subjected to the entire Garth Brooks oeuvre on your one day off, and promising to buy tickets if he ever came out of retirement again to tour.

By the time she realized she had gone on nodding long after Amanda fell silent—her rant about "Fancy" and the influential career of its redheaded songstress concluded—it was too late. She glanced away from the traffic ahead, to find the detective smirking at her, eyebrow raised expectantly.

"What? I'm sorry, I'm just not a fan," said Olivia, caught. "It's nothing personal. I'm sure she's a lovely human being. Is this her singing now?"

Amanda's head thumped audibly against the passenger seat headrest. She heaved a weary sigh. "No, honey, this is Tanya Tucker. You know—" She sang the next line in a tuneful voice that was far more pleasant than the one on the radio, in Olivia's opinion: "'Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on?'"

"See, now that I like. When you sing it." Olivia flashed an obsequious grin and batted her eyelashes a few times when it produced a laugh. Perhaps she had learned a thing or two about Southern charm from her fair-haired fiancée, after all. "Tonya's just . . . a little much."

"Tanya." Amanda sighed again, but reached out to turn the volume dial down, lowering the music to a distant twang in the backseat. "So, what do you want to listen to, then, boss?"

Detecting a hint of sarcasm in the title, Olivia cast a sidelong glance at her passenger. Amanda had been a tad moody since they left the apartment, her impatience to get an early start not met with the adequate amount of haste by Olivia or their children. If Olivia didn't know better, she'd guess PMS as the culprit, but Amanda's period had ended days ago. Yesterday morning's romp in the sack—which still quickened her pulse when she thought about it—wouldn't have been possible, otherwise. Maybe it was Monday morning blues, the prospect of a full workweek without daytime sex just too depressing to bear? Yeah, that sounded like her bride-to-be.

Smiling at the idea, she shrugged off Amanda's attitude and said, "Something with less rampant misogyny and fewer trailer parks burning down? And no banjos."

"What, like classical music? Opera?" Amanda gave the latter option a hoity-toity inflection that Olivia didn't much care for, but which didn't surprise her. She was aware that her tastes ran a bit highbrow for Amanda's liking at times, just as Amanda knew that Olivia would sleep through any Adam Sandler movie and thought cold pizza for breakfast was one step removed from barbarism.

Usually, they laughed about their differences. Indulged them, even. It was easy to endure the beer, hot wings, and rowdy sports fans at a crowded bar, when the prettiest blonde in the room—in all five boroughs, as far as Olivia was concerned—grinned at her from across the table, giddy over the scoreboard; likewise, Amanda schlepped to almost every art gallery and foreign film festival that made it onto Olivia's radar, just for the chance to show off her "fine-ass girlfriend," as she so eloquently put it. Theater was one thing they often agreed upon, musicals and straight plays providing some common ground on many a date night. Amanda had seemed to enjoy _Porgy and Bess_ , but she _was_ antsy during _Madama Butterfly_ , come to think of it . . .

"What's wrong with opera?" Olivia asked lightly, almost innocently, hoping to defuse whatever was causing the tension she felt brewing. As much as she loved Amanda, as perfect as their relationship could be, sometimes the blonde went looking for a fight when there was none. And though loathe to admit it, Olivia took the bait on more than a few occasions.

"If I wanna hear fat guys hollerin' at me in Italian, I'll put on a tight skirt and walk around Little Italy." Still tilted back against the headrest, Amanda propped a boot on the dashboard and an elbow on her knee, gazing sullenly out the front windshield. From the rear speakers, Tanya Tucker was just audible enough for her horsey vibrato to evoke images of a distant barnyard.

Olivia chuckled at the sound and the statement, but her grouchy companion didn't even crack a smile. "You mind?" she asked, nodding to Amanda's foot on the dash. It wasn't obstructing her view, and she should have let it go, but Amanda knew how much she disliked dusty shoe prints on the car's interior. Not to mention, the posture was dangerous, should they get into an accident.

"Not really, no," Amanda said, but she dropped her boot heavily to the floor and shoved up straight in her seat.

"Okay, what's going on with you?" Olivia rolled to a stop behind a long line of cars at a red light and turned to gaze at Amanda, more puzzled than angry. "You're being snippy. What, did I use all the hot water in the shower this morning, or something? I offered to share . . ."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm used to that, right? Being such a hillbilly 'n all. Don't get many hot showers when you ain't got that newfangled plumbing y'all have 'round here." Amanda flicked her hand towards the window. "You might wanna stop."

It took Olivia a moment to realize she had eased up on the brake, allowing the car to creep forward several inches. She jabbed reflexively at the pedal, bringing the SUV—and both of its occupants—to a jerky halt, though it was still a safe distance from the vehicle in front. "Amanda. Where is this coming from? You're not seriously pissed at me for disliking country music, I hope, because that's just . . ."

She left it at that, opting for a brief shake of her head, rather than one of the many unflattering conclusions that came to mind: childish, petty, annoying, ridiculous—

"Just what? Say it."

A shrill, long-winded honk from the car behind them broke into the conversation, startling Olivia out of responding. She gripped the wheel and swore under her breath, glaring at the impatient commuter in the rear view mirror as she went through the green light. Amanda did her one better, flipping the angry driver the bird as he whipped out and around them, practically taking the curb and a bicyclist along with him.

The detective stabbed her index finger down on the power window button, thrusting her blonde head out into the chilly December air, and bellowing, "Go back to Jersey, you crazy sonuvabitch!" though the blue Subaru was well beyond earshot now. Closing the window back up with equal aggression, she clucked her tongue in disgust and muttered, "Damn fool."

Olivia kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, lips folded into a thin, hard line. Realizing her teeth were also clenched shut, she relaxed her jaw and inhaled deeply, then pushed the breath out—and with it, the jangled nerves. At least in theory. She didn't tremble or shriek anymore when startled, sometimes barely even flinched, but she still reacted to loud noises, especially car horns. (On their drive to the beach house, William Lewis had punctuated much of his lunatic singing with short blasts of the horn, which were as deafening as atomic bombs to Olivia's semi-conscious, terrorized brain.) Already on edge from the impending argument, she was now coiled tighter than a spring. She focused on breathing through it and easing up on the steering wheel.

"You okay?" Amanda asked softly, after a moment of awkward silence. She sounded contrite, the rough edges of her tone smoothed away to reveal the honeyed Southern drawl underneath. Normally, that was enough to leave Olivia a little weak in the knees.

"Dandy."

She flicked the turn signal on and waited for a break in traffic, or for some kind soul to motion her into the bank parking lot. But who was she kidding? Monday morning in NYC, with Christmas right around the corner? She'd have a better chance of spotting Santa's sleigh than getting into the bank, opening a joint checking account with Amanda, and leaving with enough time to arrive at work on schedule. That had been the reason Amanda rushed everyone through breakfast and school drop offs, like a drill sergeant hustling recruits—to ensure plenty of time to complete the errand she'd been hinting at for weeks, and the one Olivia had avoided just as long.

It shouldn't be such a big deal, she knew that. Most married couples had joint checking accounts, a fact she'd learned early into her career with SVU, when she also discovered what a nightmare those same shared finances could be for an abused spouse who wanted to escape their husband or wife. She feared nothing of the sort from Amanda, but a small part of her—a part that had spent years scrutinizing bad marriages and seeing the power that money, or a lack thereof, exerted over them—made her reticent. Amanda, however, had no such reservations. Like every other sticky situation the detective encountered, she was ready to dive in headfirst.

Olivia loved her for it. But she couldn't follow without a great deal of forethought.

"Finally," she sighed to herself when an opening appeared behind a line of slowing cars. An ancient VW Beetle puttered up behind the rest, leaving just enough space for her to squeeze through before the next onslaught of rapidly approaching vehicles.

"Oh, come on—" She threw her hands up in disgust at the oblivious hippie (he literally had dreads) driving the banana yellow rust bucket, then punched the gas and sliced the SUV in between whiteboy Bob Marley and a gray Honda Civic, with scalpel-like precision. The Civic blared its horn, narrowly missing her bumper, but this time she was prepared. Her heart rate remained steady, her hands didn't tighten on the wheel, and when she coasted into a front row parking spot, she turned a calm, albeit expressionless, look on Amanda.

Killing the ignition, she stated, "We're here."

Amanda was tugging on her bottom lip. She had a handful of tells, some of which she was aware, and a few that Olivia kept to herself—for her own amusement and maybe a little leverage as well. The lip thing either meant deep concentration, anxiousness, or a desire to speak her mind, even if it wouldn't be received well.

Brows arched in expectation, Olivia gestured as though she were offering the floor, and waited. _Out with it._

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to snap at you . . . "

Olivia sensed a "but" coming.

"It's just—"

Close enough.

"And don't take this the wrong way," Amanda said in a measured tone, palms up in a defensive gesture. "But you kinda live in your little Manhattan bubble. Sometimes, I think you forget that not everybody grew up listening to Puccini, getting mani-pedis, wearing designer clothes, and attending fancy private schools. We didn't all get the culture y'all have around here."

For a moment, Olivia could only stare, baffled into silence. To hear Amanda tell it, you would think Olivia had lived a charmed existence from birth, a little uptown princess on her New York City throne, rather than the real story—outings to the opera were one of the rare times she got to experience her mother sober; mani-pedis were more punishment than reward—Serena had once called her a "common whore" for choosing red polish to adorn her nails (this, when she was twelve years old); dressing Olivia in nice, new clothes was one of the few things that made Serena look at her with pride; and her academic career had been one failed attempt after another to win her mother's love by excelling in every subject and extracurricular those "fancy private schools" offered. The so-called culture had come at a price, and no matter how much Olivia paid, it had never been enough. Not for Serena Benson.

And apparently not for Amanda Rollins, either.

"Gee, Amanda, why would I take that the wrong way?" Feeling a sharp pain in the center of her palm, Olivia released the key she'd inadvertently been squeezing. She traded it for her pink butterfly keychain—a teether that formerly belonged to her daughter, but now served as a makeshift stress ball for the child's neurotic mother. Amanda had been the one to attach the toy to Olivia's keys with a carabiner, after their nightmare vacation in the Catskills. The detective always knew just how to make it better. But that also meant she knew just how to make it hurt. "Finding out my fiancée thinks I'm a spoiled snob is how I like to start off all my Monday mornings."

"That's not what I—"

"Is that really how you see me? Because I didn't care about any of those things, you know. The clothes, the tutors, the matinees and museums. I would've traded it all to have a mother who didn't need a fifth of vodka to get through another day of me existing."

The longer Olivia went on, the further Amanda hung her head, until her chin practically touched her chest, pale hair concealing most of her features. But those clear blue eyes were still visible, and they peered around the blonde locks like the eyes of a scolded pup. In fact, right then, she bore a strong resemblance to Gigi, their golden retriever. "I didn't mean you, Liv," she muttered in a tone so low, Olivia strained to hear it. "I know you're not like that."

"Okay . . ." Olivia tilted her head, trying to get a glimpse of the pretty face that was turned away from her. "I'm officially confused. If not me, who were you talking about, then?"

Several seconds passed before Amanda finally looked up, wearing a slightly pained grimace. Her cheeks were pinker than they had been a moment ago, although it was hard to tell if the shade indicated anger, embarrassment, or something entirely different. "Forget it. Let's go on in and see how long this is gonna take."

"Hey." Olivia pushed the power lock button on her key fob when Amanda reached for the door. The detective could easily circumvent the trap by simply pulling up on the knob beside her, but she turned back to Olivia with a perturbed huff, as if she'd been tossed in a prison cell. "Talk to me. If you didn't mean me, who were you—"

Something flashed behind Amanda's eyes, momentarily turning them aquamarine. More green than blue. Olivia had seen that same spark of color in the other woman's eyes just two days earlier, though it didn't register with her then what might be the cause.

"Wait, is this about Alex?" she asked, unable to hide the note of incredulity in her voice.

Last Saturday. The package had arrived by FedEx, though certainly small enough to be sent postal. And the wedding wasn't until March, so even priority mail would have been overkill. But that was former assistant district attorney Alexandra Cabot for you—better to be far ahead of schedule than lagging behind. Even if it meant paying a steeper price. And judging by the craftsmanship of the gorgeous vintage earrings that were inside the package, she had paid generously. Olivia was no gemologist, but she knew expensive jewelry when she saw it, and the cut and sparkle of the studs, each adorned with a dangling, dusty blue tear-shaped gem—not unlike the color of Amanda's eyes—spoke of money and the confidence to spend it.

A pretty notecard, lilac-scented and monogrammed with the initials "A.C.," had fallen from the FedEx envelope. Amanda picked it up, sniffed the paper, and displayed the short missive on the inside, in Alex's flowing script:

_Something blue. Congratulations, dearest Liv. - A_

"She think I can't afford to buy jewelry for my own girlfriend?" Amanda had asked, examining both sides of the card closely, as if searching for a hidden code within the calligraphy. Binary or an image file, perhaps.

"Fiancée," Olivia reminded her, already trying the earrings on in front of the hall mirror. That was when she saw the verdant flash in Amanda's eyes, fleeting and reflected in the glass—and gone, once she turned around for a better look.

She'd reeled Amanda in by the belt loop, sweeping aside her blonde bangs to reveal the jewel-like eyes underneath. "Who needs jewelry? I've already got my something blue," she said, and kissed her soundly. Olivia had considered the matter settled, especially when Amanda's hands found their way to her ass, firm grip conveying the message loud and clear: _Mine_. It was becoming a habit, that possessive gesture, and one Olivia probably should have discouraged. But she liked it too much.

And then, yesterday morning, she woke up so aroused she couldn't even wait to brush her teeth before practically devouring Amanda whole. She had known not to mention the dream, though; she played dumb when Amanda asked what inspired the sex noises she had been making in her sleep. It would only cause trouble and hurt feelings if she'd admitted the dream was about Alex. Nothing overtly sexual, just the two of them sunbathing on a beach float. They were holding hands, but it was the lapping of the water against the inflatable raft, the gentle rise and fall of the waves beneath their sun-kissed bodies, that really awakened Olivia's desire. Seconds before she stirred, the Alex in her dream had looked up with a smile. The willowy blonde was wearing the teardrop earrings and not much else as she declared, "Storm's coming."

That storm was here, and it went by the name Amanda Rollins. The red-faced, antsy little blonde who sat scowling from the next seat over.

Suddenly, Olivia was very glad she had kept the dream to herself. "You're jealous," she said lightly, holding back a faint smile. If Amanda thought she was being laughed at, Olivia would have an all-out hurricane on her hands.

"I'm not jealous, I'm just . . . " Amanda gave a dull shrug, as if she would leave it at that. But a moment later: "I'm pissed. Who the hell sends an expensive-ass gift like that to someone else's almost wife? If she and I were both men, would that seem like an okay thing to do?"

She had a point. Olivia swallowed the humor that had tried to surface, and reached for the hand on Amanda's bouncing knee. That jiggly leg was another tell, indicating lies, suppressed anger, or a desperate need to pee. "Do you want me to return them?" she asked, stroking her thumb back and forth over Amanda's delicate knuckles. "I will, if it bothers you that much."

Just for a second, the detective looked like she might say yes. But finally, she shook her head and scooped up Olivia's hand in her own. "Nah, don't do that. They look real pretty on you." She brought Olivia's palm to her lips and kissed the caterpillar-shaped scar along the heel. "I'm being paranoid, I guess. But Cabot had her chance, and she blew it. She needs to step off my woman before I put a cap in her bony ass."

Now, Olivia laughed. "Okay, Dirty Harry, calm down. I don't want our honeymoon to be spent in Sing Sing. And for the record . . . " She paused to lick her lips, not quite sure why they had gone dry all of a sudden. "There's never been anything but friendship between me and Alex. No 'chance' for her to lose. Got it?"

"Uh-huh." Amanda smiled wanly, doing a terrible job of trying to appear convinced. She looked a bit queasy, to be honest.

"So, quit worrying that pretty little head of yours." Olivia reached up and cupped her hand to the back of Amanda's head, scrunching lightly at the long, pale hair that fell down past the younger woman's shoulder blades. Amanda had talked about cutting it before the wedding, but Olivia secretly hoped she wouldn't. It would look so lovely swept into a wavy updo or loose French braid. "You know I like my blondes Southern and scrappy. And short."

"Here we go again with the height jokes," Amanda groused, but the queasy expression began to fade, replaced by a wide, genuine smile. The dimple made it official—her mood was improving. "'Oh, I'm Olivia. I'm five-nine. Look at me, I'm a tall, sexy badass.'"

"I do _not_ sound like that," Olivia said, chuckling as she climbed out of the driver's side, secured the power locks, and joined Amanda on the curb.

They entered the bank arm in arm, still snickering and poking fun at each other's stature, until a man in a heavy brown Carhartt jacket, a black knit cap slung low on his brow, collided with Amanda's shoulder as he barreled past. The impact knocked her back a step, jerking her hand free of the pocket she insisted was as good as any glove. Without offering an apology—or even so much as a backward glance—the man continued for the exit, shoved through the double doors with a blast of cold winter air, and hurried into the parking lot.

"Merry Christmas to you too, asshole," Amanda said rather loudly, rolling her shoulder a few times as she watched over it, a death glare fixed on the retreating figure.

After a decade in Manhattan, Amanda still hadn't completely lost her accent, but she'd definitely captured the New York spirit for responding to rude behavior. It was a small incongruity that Olivia found endearing—just one of the many her detective possessed. "Are you okay, sweetie?" she asked, rubbing in between Amanda's slender shoulders. "Want me to bust a cap in his ass?"

Amanda snorted, turning her attention back to the row of bank tellers on the opposite wall and the customers lined up in front of each. A few of the cubicles to their left were unoccupied, but the desks that were being manned by staff already had transactions under way. They were in for a wait no matter which route they chose. "Maybe some other time. I'm okay. Right now, we best be gettin' in line." She placed a hand at the small of Olivia's back, ushering her towards the shortest queue. "Scoot your buns on in there."

For fifty odd years, Olivia had dug her heels in whenever someone tried to steer her around—mentally or physically—as Amanda did now. She'd never let any of the men in her life get away with it. Not even her own mother had been permitted to guide her footsteps anywhere that she didn't already plan to go. But when a certain feisty little blonde decided to act big and tough, Olivia couldn't help playing along. It was cute when Amanda thought she was the boss. Usually.

Allowing herself to be led forward, she took up the spot behind a young woman wearing a hijab, an oversized Aztec-design cardigan and jeans, and toting an adorable little boy on her hip. He looked to be about preschool age, his chunky snow boots dangling heavily from his skinny legs. His head bobbled when the mother hitched him up on her hip, and he turned a set of deep brown, almond-shaped eyes on Olivia.

"Hi, cutie," she said furtively, cupping her hand into a tiny wave. Expressionless, the child blinked his long, graceful eyelashes at her several times, then broke into a wide grin and buried his face against his mother's shoulder.

Thus began a game of hide and seek, which consisted of Olivia pretending to look away until the little boy peeked out at her, giggled, and ducked his head again every time she glanced back. After a moment, she caught Amanda's eye and found the blonde watching the exchange with a fond smile. She reached for Olivia's hand, lacing their fingers together behind her back, and raised up to murmur in her ear:

"Don't get any ideas. We've got enough at home."

"But—"

"Olivia."

Olivia flashed her most disarming smile and hip-checked Amanda lightly. "Gotcha."

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 2: Alpha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Devilish Friday! Thanks for the R&Rs for chapter 1. :) I'm putting a mild **TW** on this chapter for a brief reference to domestic violence. **/TW** Also, I wish there was a way to fix the chapter headers so they don't read "Chapter 3: Chapter 2:" like that, but if there is, I don't know how to do it without messing up the pull-down chapter list thing. Bear with me, and just assume that the header directly above the chapter text is the correct one. Not sure there's a whole lot more to add to this note, except... well, I'm glad y'all like conflict. Hold onto your butts.

## CHAPTER 2: Alpha

**. . .**

Fifteen minutes later, the little boy had lost interest in the antics behind him, Olivia had begun compulsively checking her watch every thirty seconds, and Amanda was on her third Dum Dums lollipop from the complimentary bowl by the ATM machine. She crunched loudly into the coconut-pineapple flavored candy that was just a polite way for the manufacturer to compare it to a piña colada. She would much rather have the real thing right about now. None of the lines had budged an inch in the past five minutes.

"We're going to be late," Olivia announced, literally watching the seconds tick by on her shiny Breitling Chronomat. Amanda wasn't too keen on wristwatches herself—she had enough nervous energy as it was, without wearing a constant reminder of the ephemerality of time—but she'd always admired the one Olivia owned. Mostly because of how expensive the damn thing was. She knew for a fact that Breitlings ran upwards of four thousand dollars, with some costing more than a brand new car (she'd Googled the timepieces to find out).

Recently, curiosity got the better of her as she sat on their bed at home, watching Olivia dress for yet another police function from which they would inevitably duck out early, pinning up her pretty brown hair and slipping on her jewelry—including the watch. Amanda had sauntered up behind her and kissed her bared neck, then casually twitched the watch over on her wrist and asked how she'd afforded such an extravagant accessory on a cop salary.

"It was a gift," Olivia replied, and offered no further explanation beyond a warm kiss on the lips before turning back to the mirror and applying a coat of red lipstick in a single expert stroke. _Vamp_ —the name of the lipstick, but also a good description of the woman putting it on.

Amanda had almost forgotten the conversation, until now, as Olivia fussed with the black leather strap and centered the glinting display on her wrist like she could physically stall time by holding it just so. "Babe, relax," Amanda said, trying to keep the annoyance from creeping into her voice. She'd already lost her temper with Olivia once today, over those stupid earrings (and the note . . . _Something blue_. . . it still burned her); she didn't want to do it again, over a little impatience. "You're the boss. You can be an hour late and no one'd say squat."

She retrieved two more Dum Dums from the handful in her pocket and held them up to Olivia.

"Here, have a sucker. I'll even give you the red one." Pushing up on the stick of the red lollipop, she waggled it enticingly, and winked. "I know how much you like strawberry."

Olivia cast a quick glance around to make sure no one had overhead the lascivious tone Amanda used. The captain did in fact love strawberry, the flavor and the fruit. During the truth or dare game they had played in the Catskills, she'd claimed that chocolate-covered strawberries were her favorite aphrodisiac—and it was no lie. Amanda had delighted in proving just how true it was, more than a few times since. They often joked about buying a fondue pot for the bedroom.

"Tease." Olivia snatched up the lollipop, tore off the wrapper, and tucked the red candy inside her cheek. "And just because you're sleeping with the boss, doesn't mean _you_ get to be late."

Popping a green apple sucker into her mouth and stuffing the wrapper into her pocket with the three that went before, Amanda grinned. "What's she gonna do, give me a good tongue-lashing?" she asked, and swirled her own tongue around the little tart green ball in her mouth. Which she left conveniently open.

"Incorrigible." Olivia shook her head, but she reached for Amanda's hand and enfolded it in hers, resting both at waist level, elbow propped on her sidearm. A moment later, she looked down at her watch again.

"So . . ." Amanda cracked the lollipop in two with her back teeth, grinding the disarticulated half to a fine rubble that stuck in her molars. She could feel herself about to stir up trouble where there wasn't any—something she had a knack for, especially in relationships—but she also felt powerless to stop it. After eighteen years of listening to her parents argue over every topic imaginable, from religion ("Fuck your church, Beth Anne. God ain't never done nothin' for me. I'm just returnin' the favor") to restaurants ("We don't have the money, Dean . . ."), she'd picked up a few bad habits. Jealousy and suspicion, for example. "You never said who it's from."

"Hm?" Olivia twirled the stick between her pursed lips, the hard candy clacking faintly against her teeth. It was staining her mouth a vibrant red. "Who what's from?"

_Don't do it, Rollins. Just keep your trap shut._

"Your rollie rollie." Amanda swished the remainder of her lollipop in the direction of Olivia's watch.

"My what-y what-y?"

There went playing it light and subtle. "It's short for— you know what, never mind," she sighed, and lifted their clasped hands, indicating the band that slid down Olivia's wrist. "I'm talking about your watch, hon. You said it was a gift . . ."

"Mm-hmm." Olivia narrowed her eyes for the briefest of moments, patting the marble-sized lollipop into the center of her puckered lips. She looked like she was contemplating a lengthier response, but turned to face straight ahead instead, focusing on the little boy who had started to nod off on his mother's shoulder.

"Who from?" Amanda asked, still trying to sound nonchalant, and still failing miserably. She didn't know why she even cared about the answer, other than the fact that Olivia seemed reluctant to give it up. They had poured their heart and soul out to each other on numerous occasions, and Amanda assumed they knew all of each other's secrets at this point. But clearly she was wrong. "Or was that from Alex, too, and that's why you won't tell me?"

Olivia turned a sharp look on Amanda, a bemused smirk on her face. She only wore that expression when a nerve had been struck. "Really, Rollins? We're doing this again? Here?"

Rollins. These days the captain only used Amanda's last name when she was bossing or upbraiding her. Amanda felt her pulse quicken, and for a split-second, she couldn't tell if it was anger or excitement that caused the surge. She hated that a small part of her—a very, very small part—liked arguing with Olivia sometimes, liked challenging her authority. And not just because the make-up sex was great.

"It's a simple question. Shouldn't be that hard to answer." Amanda shrugged, making a show of glancing at their surroundings. Good a place as any. "Unless you don't want me to know, for some reason."

"Oh my God." Releasing Amanda's hand, Olivia crumpled the wrapper around her unfinished lollipop and shoved both hands into her coat pockets. She shook her head, the furious shade of her lips a perfect compliment to the taut line they were drawn into. Voice equally taut, she said, "I can't believe you're being like this."

Neither could Amanda, quite frankly. There had been a few minor dust-ups in the past several months of their whirlwind courtship—a courtship nearly ten years in the making. Most were silly, brief, and part of the process of learning to live together, with all their habits and quirks: they had wildly different methods of loading the dishwasher; Olivia thought meals should be eaten while seated at the dinner table, and she never let the dogs lick the plates clean afterwards; Amanda considered hangers and drawers overrated, and she hadn't made her bed since sometime in the early nineties. But this was more than another cute example of opposites attracting. It had heft to it, like a loaded gun that Amanda tossed from palm to palm, tempting fate.

She'd been carrying it around for days, if she was being honest. Before _Something blue_. It started when she first suggested the joint bank account, which met with far less enthusiasm than she'd anticipated from her bride-to-be. Not that she expected Olivia to jump up and down with excitement—that wasn't the captain's style, and Amanda was glad of it—but anything besides flat-out reluctance would have been preferable. The longer it went on, the more times Olivia dodged the topic or overlooked a bank on their daily commute, the more convinced Amanda became that she knew what the problem must be: and she was it. Olivia still didn't trust her, or at least doubted her ability to handle money responsibly. Once a compulsive gambler, always a compulsive gambler. Hell, she should just get it tattooed on her forehead.

"Being like what, Liv?" She inclined an ear, waiting for enlightenment and disliking herself more with each passing moment. Maybe she was a worthless addict, after all. They never knew when to quit.

"A jealous control freak," Olivia said bluntly, not even trying to sugarcoat it.

Ever since their upstate encounter with Tad Orion, the sadistic escaped con who had a penchant for enucleation, they tended to treat each other with a good deal of delicacy, whether in word or deed. As if anything too harsh might cause the other to shatter. For Amanda, who had witnessed Olivia at her most vulnerable that weekend—and had become the keeper of her most guarded secrets—it could be difficult not to think of the other woman as fragile. Fierce as hell, courageous, composed as ever, but needing to be handled gently, spoken to softly. Up until now, she'd given the same consideration to Amanda. But there was nothing gentle or soft in that accusation, and it went straight to the heart of Amanda's worst fears about herself.

"Just like my daddy, huh? That what you're trying to tell me?" she said a bit too loudly. The Muslim woman in front of them turned slightly, pretending to glance out the glass double doors, but she cast a quick look over her shoulder before facing forward again. Great. Now, Amanda could add causing a scene in public and screaming at her (almost) spouse to the list of similarities she shared with her son of a bitch father, a man she had once seen grab her mother by the back of the hair and yank to her knees in a Dairy Queen parking lot. He'd suspected her of flirting with the teenage boy who took their order.

"That's not what I—"

"Sure it is." Amanda folded her arms tightly to her chest and glared at the teller windows ahead, stone-faced. A man in a black knit cap and bulky brown coat had just stepped up to the window on the next line over. It looked like the douchebag that almost mowed her down earlier, but that guy had left the bank already. She really was being paranoid. No wonder Olivia was fed up with her.

"Next," called the teller in front of them, smiling as the young mother and her sleepy little boy approached.

From the corner of her eye, Amanda detected movement beside her and heard Olivia's coat rustling. She gazed askance to see the captain tug up her sleeve, working at the leather band on her watch and sliding it free of the silver buckle. "Liv, don't. Put it back—"

But the Breitling had already been removed, and Olivia held it out to her by one strap, the other swaying back and forth when she put more thrust behind the offer. Finally, Amanda sighed and accepted the watch, though not quite sure what she was supposed to do with it. (Dean Rollins would chuck it on the ground and smash the crystal display under his boot heel. Wait, scratch that—he'd hock it.) She cradled it carefully in her palm and glanced to Olivia for further instruction.

"Read the back." Olivia's arms were crossed in a defensive posture, but she looked more upset than angry. For one terrible moment, she seemed on the verge of tears. Then it passed and she reached over, turned the watch face down, and clapped it firmly into Amanda's hand. Read it.

Shoulders sagging, Amanda read the inscription etched into the stainless steel case:

 _To my daughter_  
 _of whom I'm so very proud.  
_ _All my love, Mom_

"She gave it to me when I made detective," Olivia said in a strained voice, almost too soft to be heard over the sounds of business being conducted in the spacious building. She cleared her throat and tossed aside the dark brown waves framing her face. "I can count on one hand the number of times she told me I made her proud, and that's one of them."

A sickening weight settled in the pit of Amanda's stomach. She wanted to wrap Olivia up in a comforting embrace and hold her until that expression—the one that made it so easy to picture what she must have looked like as a neglected little girl, longing for her mother's love and approval—was gone. But Amanda had put the expression there; she couldn't just undo it, she couldn't unsay words already spoken. She couldn't soothe the ache that had plagued Olivia since childhood. She knew, because nothing had healed the scars of her own piss-poor upbringing. Olivia was right. Maybe they were just all victims of their past.

"I didn't say anything because . . . " Olivia shrugged and took back the watch when Amanda handed it over. She traced her thumb across the engraving, staring down at it for several moments, jaw clenched. "But I wasn't trying to hide it from you. Sometimes I don't want to talk about her. I can't."

"I know." Amanda frowned as she watched Olivia trying to secure the Breitling on her wrist, unable to keep it steady against her puffy coat and its slippery water-resistant lining. "Here, baby," she said, and caught hesitantly at Olivia's arm, offering assistance. When it wasn't rejected, she fastened the watch into place and loosely grasped at the warm wrist underneath. Even in the dead of winter, her captain gave off a natural heat that Amanda wished she could huddle up in and block out the cold and the rest of the world—including her own personal bullshit.

"The band broke once. It was one of those metal jobs that fold over and clasp. Kinda masculine, actually." Olivia laughed without much conviction. "Guess she had ideas about my sexuality before I did. Anyway, the band snapped off during a scuffle with some perp. Cost me a month's salary just to get it replaced with this one."

She rotated the leather strap around her wrist a few times, momentarily lost in the action. The nervous fidgeting had subsided a great deal in the past several months, and she seldom zoned out anymore, but there were still occasional glimpses of the anxiety she fought so hard to conceal. Especially when she was agitated. Or worse, frightened. "I don't know what possessed her to put so much money into a watch, to begin with. I would've been just as happy if she'd told me . . . "

Although the sentence trailed off there, Amanda could guess the conclusion: Olivia had wanted to hear that Serena Benson loved her—hear it and believe it—not be distracted with expensive gifts that could never make up for the years of abuse and resentment. And yet, she wore it to this day, holding onto that little shred of proof that her mother had, for at least a moment, been glad Olivia existed.

"I'm sorry," Amanda said, squeezing at Olivia's wrist. She slid her hand farther down, interlocking their fingers. "It's a great watch. I  
shouldn't've—"

"You're going to have to learn to trust me, Amanda." Olivia's hand remained slack at first, then tightened by degrees, curling around its captor a finger at a time. She pressed their conjoined hands to her abdomen, as if that was where her next words originated—from the gut. "I hope you know by now that I'm not impressed with wealth or materialism. Money's nice, but it's not everything. And there's no amount that could buy my love away from you."

Guilt sat in Amanda's throat like a hot lump, and she had to swallow hard, twice, before she could reply. Leave it to Olivia to elocute as beautifully as if she were already reciting her wedding vows, rather than standing in the middle of Sterling National Bank. "I do trust you, Liv," said Amanda, the irony of those words coming from _her_ mouth not lost on her. Olivia was the most trustworthy person she knew and usually the one doing the reassuring in such matters. The idea of the captain being anything less than loyal and true to her word was preposterous.

But that didn't mean she still couldn't decide life with Amanda was more trouble than it was worth. Many had before her. And with Amanda hounding her about everything from checking accounts to Alex Cabot, it wouldn't be a surprise if she got completely fed up long before their nuptials. Suddenly, the bank excursion seemed like a terrible idea.

"How 'bout we do this later?" Amanda suggested, turning their hands for a glimpse at Olivia's watch. "You're right, we're gonna be really late. Let's just come back when there's more time and we're in a better frame of mind."

Her attempt to head for the exit met with resistance when Olivia didn't follow. Amanda halted a few steps away, gazing back expectantly. They looked like they were playing a game of Red Rover, arms fully extended in the space between them and their clasped hands, both determined not to break the line.

"There's nothing wrong with my frame of mind," Olivia said a bit brusquely. Despite her success at recovering from the multiple traumas she'd withstood, she could be extra sensitive on the subject of mental health. Even more so, if she thought hers was being called into question. She licked her lips and continued in a level tone: "We're here now, we might as well get it out of the way so we don't have to drag ourselves back in again."

"See what I mean? You think I dragged you here." Amanda tugged at Olivia's hand, barely applying any force. It wasn't the side that had been operated on, but in the aftermath of the Orion attack, she had gotten used to treating Olivia's badly bruised right wrist with as much care as her injured left shoulder. The habit was hard to break. "Obviously you don't want to do this, so let's wait till you're ready. It's no big deal."

"I'm ready, Amanda. You're the one making it a big deal." Olivia slipped her hand from Amanda's grasp and let it drop to her side, flexing her fingers as if they were asleep. Since the injuries, she did complain more frequently of numbness in both hands. But the released grip felt like a rejection, nonetheless. "Can you please just get back in line with me? It's almost our turn."

Right on cue, the Muslim woman and her son stepped away from the counter, and a middle-aged teller called, "Next!" while gazing stonily over her bifocals. That was sexy when Olivia did it, but this lady looked like the crabby librarian from Amanda's elementary school days. She gazed back and forth from one cop to the other, waiting for someone to approach her. When that didn't work, she cleared her throat primly, directing the impatient sound at Olivia, who was closest and hadn't fallen out of line.

"Okay, then maybe I'm the one who's not ready," Amanda said, without taking the time to consider the implications of that statement. She cringed inwardly, hoping Olivia wouldn't misinterpret her meaning. Sometimes their connection was so strong they could finish each other's sentences—almost read each other's minds, it seemed. But today their easy rapport was as jerky and awkward as those first couple of weeks after Amanda's transfer to Manhattan, when they might as well have been from different planets. Different galaxies, even.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Olivia asked, and stepped sideways to block the suit who tried to go around her and claim their spot. He gave his next move away with his briefcase, navigating with it out in front of him like it steered his course, instead of vice versa. He was a tall man, and when he tried to skirt past Olivia on the opposite side, she held up her hands for emphasis as she blocked his path again.

Watch Animal Planet for any significant amount of time, and you would likely learn that many species scared off their adversaries by making themselves appear larger than they actually were—owls did it, cats did it, bears did it. And so did Olivia Benson. When the guy finally sighed and fell back a step, she returned her attention to Amanda. "What's that supposed to mean?" she repeated with a little less bite than before. Her annoyance had shifted to the pushy jerk, who was tapping a shiny Oxford impatiently.

"Why don't you ladies go tip the velvet elsewhere?" The businessman gestured with his briefcase, indicating that Olivia should stand aside. "Some of us have real jobs to get to."

Both women rounded on him in unison, their expressions and tones incredulous.

"Seriously?" Amanda asked, with a disgusted snort.

"Excuse me?" Olivia glared up at him like they were eye to eye, though he surpassed her by at least five inches. Of all the days for her to choose flat soles instead of heels. Amanda got a kick out of seeing men's reactions to her fiancée's impressive stature, especially with those few extra inches from her black leather boots. Most were intimidated by a woman who matched or exceeded them in height, and her commanding presence made up for the rest. But this guy stared Olivia down as if she were something nasty stuck to his shoe. It pissed Amanda off.

"You're holding up the line," he said slowly, overpronouncing each word as if speaking to a rather dimwitted child. "Move. Your. Ass."

"Wow." Olivia shook her head, lips parted in a silent laugh, though she was definitely not amused. In fact, she looked like she might haul off and punch the guy at any second. Or maybe that was just Amanda's wishful thinking, because a moment later, Olivia smirked and backed off, palms up like she was calling a truce. "You know what, never mind. Come on, Amanda," she said, turning around and storming towards the teller, who looked disappointed she wouldn't get to witness a physical altercation.

Being an NYPD officer meant conducting oneself with a certain amount of decorum around the public. Captains were held to an even higher standard, particularly the newsworthy ones like Olivia—female, beautiful, in charge of an elite squad, engaged to a woman, survivor of two psychotic serials and a spree killer. The brass waited for her to slip up so they would have an excuse to bring the hammer down hard. Amanda, however, was still just a lowly detective and didn't generate nearly as much buzz.

"You're lucky she's more of a lady than I am, dickwad," she growled up at the businessman. As she pushed past, she intentionally brought her knee up, square into the middle of his big black briefcase, as if it were his crotch. The leather case shot out of his hand, landed on its spine, and slapped open on the marble tiles, expelling a sheaf of papers that glided across the shiny floor like a troupe of ice skaters.

Though a relatively minor disturbance, the hollow acoustics in the austere old building made a tremendous noise that drew stares and a few gasps, including one from Olivia. "Bitch," the businessman accused, gazing down at the mess, then back up at Amanda. Every eye in the place seemed focused on her, eager to see how she would respond.

And so began a chain reaction of events that happened in such rapid succession, Amanda couldn't quite comprehend anything besides the look of terror on Olivia's face and the distance that kept them apart—not more than ten feet, but it might as well have been ten miles when the screaming started. First, it was the teller the next window over, her thin shriek sounding more like someone who had spotted a mouse than someone who had a gun pointed in her face.

Initially, Amanda thought it was just a delayed response to the loud bang, and the tall, angry businessman must have come to the same conclusion; he ignored it completely and called after the overweight security guard whose uniform and belt jangled like a wind chime as he jogged by. The guard's shoes squeaked as he paused and cast an uncertain look over his shoulder, apparently as dumbfounded as Amanda that the suit was dragging him into their mess. Then more yelling, this time from the man in the brown coat and knit cap. And now, as he angled his body, arm extended, Amanda saw the gun he had trained on the teller.

"I said get your hands up," he bawled, jabbing the revolver at the woman's face. It was no wonder she'd screamed—the gun was ridiculously large, like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie. The size of a small cannon and probably capable of taking down a rhinoceros.

 _Must be compensating for something_ , Amanda thought, before her brain caught up with what she was seeing. When it did, she reached for her own gun, catching a glimpse of the approaching security guard from the corner of her eye. Expecting him to draw his weapon alongside her, she was twice as disoriented to find herself in a headlock instead, the guard's beefy arm around her neck. She abandoned her grip on the gun, still tucked inside its holster, and attempted to wrestle the limb away, but it only constricted tighter, choking her. Did the dumb bastard think she was trying to rob the bank, because she was armed?

"Cop," she croaked, forcing herself to release him, in hopes that he would follow her lead. He did ease up a little, but just enough to lift the bottom of her coat and confirm the presence of a service weapon and a badge.

Surely, now he would let her go.

"Oh shit, Alpha, this one's a cop," he hollered near her ear, jerking her sideways to display the proof at her waist.

But Alpha was too busy brandishing his oversized revolver at the teller—warning her not to even think about triggering the silent alarm—and the nearby patrons, from whom a collective cry rose and fell as they dodged his vacillating aim. When the gun swung in Olivia's direction, the unmistakable fear in her eyes finally drove it home for Amanda: they had walked into a bank robbery, and she had just become hostage number one.

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 3: Omega

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I forget to mention there are some cliffhangers in this fic? Several, actually. Oopsie. 0:) But having a posting schedule means I won't leave you guys twisting in the wind too long. A few **TW** s this time: some graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of domestic violence, rape, and child abuse, and offensive language. **/TW** Hope everyone's having a good Sunday, and I hope you enjoy chapter 3!

## CHAPTER 3: Omega

**. . .**

It all happened within the span of five seconds, though it seemed much longer with the guard cutting off her air supply. She slapped at her hip, attempting to retrieve her gun with no more success than one of those sticky hand toys the kids loved to snap against the walls at home. Jesse had lost sticky hand privileges after getting hers so embedded in Gigi's fur, the poor golden retriever had trotted around with a bald spot on her hindquarters for weeks.

Amanda clung to the memory—the sound of Olivia's snorty little laugh as they exited the doggy salon, Amanda pretending to shield Gigi's rear end so no one would see their "bare-ass naked mutt"—as she began to lose consciousness. Another moment or two with the guard's arm pinching at her windpipe, and she would have blacked out entirely. But there was a sudden release of pressure, an instant blessed relief, and she could finally breathe. She sucked greedily at the air, coughing it all right back up again.

"Sorry," said the guard, looping his arm snugly around her shoulders. He smelled like fast food, as if he'd eaten a greasy McDonald's breakfast prior to work that morning. Possibly two, judging by the size of the belly pressed against her back. "Are you okay?"

She wanted to ask if she fucking sounded okay, but her breath still came in short, wheezy gasps, and it probably wasn't the best idea to antagonize him, until she figured out his role in the drama unfolding before her. That didn't stop her from trying to elbow him in the ribs, but his thickset middle absorbed most of the blow. Puffing along with her, he deflected a second jab and pinned both arms at her side by wrapping his arms around them.

"Stop," he grunted, a note of urgency in his voice. He sounded young, despite his middle-aged physique—mid twenties, perhaps? He also sounded like he was begging, not giving orders. Whatever his involvement, he was definitely not in charge of the operation. "You'll make Alpha mad. Just shut up and do what they say, so it can be over."

"Lemme go." Amanda squirmed in his embrace, hoping to worm her way loose. But the more she struggled, the tighter his grip became, as if she were stuck in a full-body Chinese finger trap. She stood at least two inches above him, and it would be tricky to find the right angle for a reverse headbutt. Tricky, but not impossible. She was lining it up when the other man—the one whose prominent title, big gun, and booming voice declared him leader—shouted at the guard so loudly it sent a palpable reverberation throughout the room:

"Mike! Quit dicking around with her, and get your fat ass over where it belongs."

"But she's got a gun. And a badge," Mike called back, muffled by Amanda's shoulder as she attempted to ram it into his face. "And she won't hold still."

"Well, you've got a gun and a badge too, dipshit. Make her." Alpha reached for a duffel bag on the floor at his feet and propped it open on the counter in front of the teller. He motioned towards it with his gun, indicating that the frightened woman should start filling. "Money. No dye packs or any of that shit. Try it, and I put a bullet in your head," he warned, leveling the revolver directly between her eyes as she fumbled for the cash drawer. Transfixed as a snake charmer staring down a cobra, she never looked away from the lengthy barrel, even when Alpha glanced back to check Mike's progress.

"Give her gun to Kilo." He jerked a nod towards the exit, where a young kid of about eighteen or nineteen was pacing back and forth, hands in his pants pockets, and stealing nervous looks out the glass doors. Realizing his name had come up, the kid stopped short and stared at Amanda for a second. He was pretty for a boy, almost androgynous, with delicate bone structure, smooth skin, and a slim build. He'd tried to hide his small stature inside a pair of tan work boots, baggy jeans, and an oversized sweatshirt, but his baby face and the tuft of black curls that peeked from under his hood gave him a childlike appearance. If not for the stud in his nose, he easily could have passed for a middle schooler.

"I don't want it," Kilo said, his voice as soft as the rest of him. He tore his gaze away from Amanda, and glanced in Olivia's direction. At first, Amanda thought he was going to address the captain—perhaps rat her out as another police officer, if he'd noticed them standing together only moments ago—but instead, he became interested in the strap of his empty duffel bag, adjusting it needlessly. "Keep it, Mike."

"No, Mike, give it to Kilo. Whether he wants it or not." Alpha seemed to have forgotten the teller as she stuffed stacks of bills into the open bag, one after the other. With any luck, she or one of her colleagues had already tripped the silent alarm, but it would be minutes before a unit arrived, even longer for negotiations to be made. A lot could happen in that amount of time, especially when a loudmouth prick started waving a gun around.

This loudmouth prick practically pranced with agitation. He was either very nervous or very high. The way he kept sniffing and swiping his wrist under his nose, Amanda's money was on the latter option. "And you know what?" he said, waggling the muzzle of the revolver at no one in particular. "Everybody needs to get down on their knees, hands behind their head. Kilo's gonna come around and collect your jewelry and wallets and shit. I suggest you cooperate. If everyone plays nice, so will we."

"You're not getting my wallet, you little cunt," muttered the businessman, who had been preparing to kneel and collect the scattered contents of his briefcase before the real drama unfolded. He squatted the rest of the way down now, ensuring his trouser legs didn't touch the floor, and continued griping under his breath as he gathered his papers.

Amanda willed him to shut the hell up. With so many civilians involved, so many possible casualties, it was best to just give the gunmen what they wanted and leave the heroics to officers who weren't also doubling as hostages. Bank robberies were rarely successful these days, seldom as lucrative as most criminals anticipated. And that was with careful planning and an organized effort by each person involved, neither of which Amanda had witnessed so far. They weren't even wearing masks, for God's sake. She had little doubt these clowns would get collared about ten seconds after they stepped foot outside the bank.

Still, when the security guard plucked the gun from her hip, her instincts were to put up a fight, to elbow the fat fuck in the face, disarm him, order Alpha and Kilo to surrender. Anything but stand there and let it happen. The last time a perp had taken her gun, he'd brained her with it, shot an eighteen-year-old girl, and almost killed Olivia. Calvin Arliss had been a grade-A psychopath, and these men were not of the same caliber—few were, thank the Lord—but being stripped of her weapon felt like having an important part of herself torn away. She gritted her teeth and reflexively tried to shake off the guard's grip as he handed her Glock over to Kilo.

"You don't have to do this," she said to the teen, turning her head slightly to include the guard as well. "Either of you. Nothing's really gone too far yet. You can just walk out of here, pretend none of this ever happened."

Kilo hesitated with his hand out, his dark brown eyes darting towards the man behind her. Up close, he looked even more like a scared kid. A few short years ago, he probably could have been found tearing around some of the same playgrounds where her children loved to romp and play. (Jesse did most of the romping; Noah and Tilly weren't quite as feral as their future stepsister.) How he had gotten mixed up with the squirrelly, Kurt Cobain lookalike toting a gigantic revolver, and the traitorous guard who now had Amanda's arms pinned behind her back, it was hard to say. He kept glancing around the bank as if he didn't know why he was there, either.

"You don't know these guys," he said, scarcely moving his lips to speak above a whisper. "Victor and Whiskey are crazy, man. Total cokeheads. But Alpha . . . you don't go against Alpha."

There were more of them, then. Amanda's thoughts drifted back to the man she'd collided with, upon arrival at the bank. She wasn't paranoid; he _had_ been dressed the same as the guy at the counter—the guy now robbing the place. After a second look, she realized that Kilo was also wearing an unzipped Carhartt jacket and black knit cap under his hoodie. At least their uniforms were coordinated. She wanted to ask how many more of them there were, and to put faces to the names she was now quite certain were call signs, but a jerk at her crisscrossed wrists made her wince and lean back to alleviate the pain in her hyperextended arms.

"There's no turning back now, for any of us," Mike the guard fretted in Amanda's ear, his Egg McMuffin breath turning her stomach. She had made the mistake of eating scrambled eggs once, while pregnant with Jesse, and ever since then, she couldn't stand the smell of eggs, no matter how they were cooked. Jesse, on the other hand, loved them. All of Amanda's children did. So did the dogs. And so did Olivia.

Sneaking a glance in the captain's direction, Amanda tried to gauge how well she was holding up. Not once since becoming captain of SVU had Olivia frozen in the line of duty. Not with so many people depending on her to lead. She'd muscled through the PTSD from three separate assaults, sometimes by sheer force of will, sometimes relying on the combined efforts of medication and Dr. Lindstrom—and many a good, long cry on Amanda's shoulder—but always with the fierce heart, the indomitable courage, that were her trademark. Fearlessness.

But in spite of all that bravery and strength, she was still easily triggered. After a few particularly harrowing cases, one involving a woman whose husband branded her with his signet ring and raped her for hours while she was chained to their bed, Amanda could literally feel the toll it took on Olivia. Her hands shook for hours after she interviewed the wife, and she'd nearly jumped out of her skin when Amanda followed her into the bathroom at the hospital to make sure she was okay. Of course, she always claimed to be fine—this was Olivia Benson, after all—but Amanda had learned to spot most of the warning signs for an oncoming flashback or panic attack. The breathing was a big one. Deep, measured breaths were good; that meant she remembered her calming exercises. Rapid, shallow breaths were bad; she couldn't focus, couldn't ground herself in the present. (Occasionally, Amanda caught herself matching each inhalation, timing it, releasing it steadily, like a stage mom mirroring her child's performance.)

Touch helped. A hand on the shoulder or back was sometimes all it took to draw Olivia away from the edge of that black abyss she stared into, eyes gone flat and unblinking. Amanda had gotten so used to keeping Olivia within reach, it felt strange _not_ to be touching her. Not being able to pull her close during work was hard. Gazing at her from ten feet away and not being able to go to her was even worse. Though tensed, she didn't appear to be panicking. Fairly normal breaths, if somewhat quicker than usual. One hand lingered near her holster hip, but her long, zipped parka concealed the pistol underneath. She couldn't go for her weapon without attracting attention. There was less than four feet separating her from Alpha and his big gun. Amanda didn't like those odds at all, especially considering his erratic behavior and twitchy movements.

Just as she opened her mouth, ready to appeal to his sensible side, if he had such a thing—or to turn on the old Rollins charm, if need be—Olivia spoke up in a clear, deceptively calm tone. That higher pitch indicated distress, and the tremor was only noticeable if you were familiar with her typical confident and straightforward manner of speaking. Amanda had heard that quaver in Olivia's voice enough times by now to recognize it as fear, no matter how well she concealed it. Almost dying together twice had connected them in a way Amanda couldn't quite comprehend; she only knew that, when Olivia was frightened, she felt it to the core and it became difficult to focus on anything else.

"You should take the money, and go." Olivia quickly put her hands up at shoulder level when Alpha whipped around, trying to determine which hostage was responsible for the suggestion. His gun arm swung back and forth like the needle on a haywire barometer, pointing first to Olivia's left, at a young woman with close-cropped black curls and a slight, boyish frame, then to her right, at the Muslim mother whose son was still fast asleep against her shoulder. She gasped and turned the little boy away from the line of fire, shielding him with her body.

"Hey, right here. Easy." Olivia stepped forward, placing herself directly in the gunman's sights, becoming the target. For a cop, it was the correct thing to do, the exact thing Amanda would have done were their positions reversed, and yet her insides dropped as she watched it happen. She'd once read that the fore wheels of a roller coaster suspended briefly in midair before the first big plunge. From then on, she always chose the front car of every ride, anticipating that fleeting moment when even gravity couldn't hold her down, and screaming into the free fall that came right after. It was a safe, delicious terror—unlike watching the woman you loved walking towards a loaded gun. All of the terror, all of the adrenaline, and none of the euphoria. Just cold, cold dread.

Automatically, she calculated trajectory. The guy was maybe five-ten or -eleven, slightly taller than Olivia. Holding the gun straight out at approximately shoulder height. Assuming he could handle the recoil and didn't fire high or low, the bullet would hit Olivia near the breastbone. She wasn't wearing a bulletproof vest. Survivable, depending on the caliber, but a gun that size, at that proximity . . . it would tear her apart. Amanda tried to squirm free of the security guard's grasp, only to feel it tighten again, holding fast. Afraid to cause too much commotion while Olivia was in harm's way, she quickly gave up the struggle, scarcely daring to breathe as her hypervigilant gaze skipped back and forth between her fiancée and the revolver.

"Easy," Olivia repeated, flinching but not backing down when the man stabbed at the air with the gun barrel. She kept her hands in clear view, still raised in surrender. "You go by Alpha? The longer you hang around here, Alpha, the more likely you are to get caught. See the cameras?" She pointed up at one of several tinted glass domes that dotted the ceiling like blackheads, the small surveillance cameras inside capturing every movement, from every angle.

"They'll have you on video, robbing the bank. If they catch you—and they will—you'll be going to prison for a very long time. Fifteen years. More if someone gets hurt." Olivia cast a fleeting look in Amanda's direction, her eyes never quite making full contact. "You don't want that. Go now, and you might actually have a chance of getting away with it."

Alpha listened with obvious indifference, a cocky smirk on his face. His features were rather unexceptional—neither ugly nor attractive—but a blankness behind his eyes lent him a menacing quality that his stature and blond surfer locks could not. It might have been the drugs. He sniffed wetly. "Lady, if I wanted your opinion, I'd ask for it. I dunno who the fuck you think you are, but you don't know jack shit." Dragging his sleeve under his nose, he gestured towards Amanda with the gun. At least that got it off of Olivia for a moment.

"Mikey boy over there already took care of the cameras," he said, then shouted so loudly several people jumped, including the man he was addressing: "Right, Mike?"

"Right, boss," said Mike, at a much more reasonable volume. "No surveillance, just like we planned."

 _Pussy_ , Amanda thought to herself. She would have muttered it out loud, but Alpha was talking to Olivia again, using the gun for emphasis.

"See? And these fine ladies behind the counter all know better than to trip the alarm and make me angry, don't you, girls?" He spared the tellers a brief glance, just long enough to catch their nervous, collective nod. The short, gray-haired woman he had threatened to shoot in the head continued cramming wads of cash into the duffel as he gave Olivia a satisfied little smile. "No one's coming to the rescue, so I suggest you shut your damn mouth and get on your knees like I said. The sooner everyone cooperates, the sooner we leave. Everyone down. Now."

One by one, the bank patrons began to obey, dropping to their knees on the hard marble floor. The mother holding her son transferred the sleeping child to her lap, cradling him like a small infant and murmuring soothing words he didn't wake to hear; the pixie-like girl with short hair sat down fully, knees drawn up under her chin, as if she were performing a cannonball dive; a few of the tellers exchanged looks of uncertainty—were they expected to kneel or distribute cash?—and opted for ducking behind the counter; even the blowhard with the briefcase settled against one kneecap, grimacing at the floor like it was covered in cow pies. Within seconds, the only people left standing were the men robbing the bank, the teller filling their bag, Amanda (Mike still hadn't resumed whatever role belonged to him in this half-assed stickup)—and Olivia.

For a long time, Alpha and the captain simply regarded each other, their expressions so neutral they might have been sitting across from each other at a stoplight. He broke the silence first, cocking the hammer of the revolver and walking it several steps closer to Olivia. If it went off now, there would be nothing left of her skull. Fragments. Streamers of brunette hair, dyed black with blood and slippery as eels. Amanda knew exactly what it would smell like afterwards, that stench of gunpowder and brain matter. It was a combination of rotten eggs and corroded batteries, and once it hit your olfactory center, it never left you. She'd smelled it with Holden. With Esther. She would take Alpha apart with her bare hands before she let that become Olivia's fate.

"Let go of me," she said in a murderous whisper to the man behind her. "Or I'll make sure you rot in a cell for the rest of your goddamn life."

Before the guard could respond, Alpha tilted his head to survey Olivia expectantly from top to bottom. "What part of 'on your knees' are you not understanding?" he enunciated, spacing the words out and emphasizing each with a flourish of the gun. He could conduct an orchestra, the way he was swishing that thing around. "Get the fuck down, or I'll put you down, cunt."

That was it for Amanda. Her years on the force had taught her not to play into the criminal's hand, not to overwhelm a gunman with too many mediators, not to bait anyone wielding a weapon—and do not, under any circumstances, get in the way when the boss is talking down a perp. But now the boss was also her soon-to-be wife, and nothing could compel Amanda to stand by while some asshole threatened and disrespected Olivia like that. As a child, Amanda was powerless to protect her mama against similar abuse from her daddy. At eight, she had overheard him calling his wife a "fucking dumb slut" before scalding her with a pot of boiling water straight off the stove. At twelve, Amanda had been the one to call 911 after he pushed Beth Anne through a plate glass window. And at sixteen, she drove the getaway car when Dean stormed through the screen door with a fifth of Jack in one hand and a shotgun in the other, bellowing "Bethy!" at the top of his lungs.

She'd spent her entire adulthood making sure she never felt that powerless again, never had to run like that again. Those men ran from her now.

"Hey, shithead, why don't you focus on robbing the bank so you can get the hell out of here." Amanda grimaced as the security guard yanked at her wrists, communicating his strong desire for her to shut the hell up. She dodged the beefy hand he tried to clamp over her mouth. "Leave her alone, she's not gonna make any trouble for you. Are ya, ma'am?"

Shooting a brief, dispassionate look at Olivia, she hoped the captain would catch on and continue the ruse of not knowing each other. The objective in most holdups was to prevent casualties and defuse the situation. Things would only escalate if Olivia revealed she was an armed police officer. And drawing on someone who already had a gun pointed at you was never advisable. Best to lie low until the right moment to strike came along. Olivia must have agreed, because she nodded at Alpha, a deferential slant to her normally bold posture.

"I'm not here to interfere," she said softly, although still in head voice, a sure sign she wasn't getting the adequate breath to speak from a lower register. Sometimes at night, her breathing was so shallow Amanda got the urge to shake her and make certain she was still alive (for Olivia, sleep was precious and elusive, and not to be disturbed). It took all of Amanda's self-restraint not to glance over at her in concern. If her hands were shaking, that meant trouble. "You've got this under control, Alpha. You don't need me or anyone else to distract you from your plan. The bag's almost full, why don't you—"

"You two know each other?" Alpha asked sharply, switching the gun from Olivia to Amanda, and back again. He blinked too much. It was either a side effect of the drugs, or the perspiration dripping from his brow. Hard to tell which with his ceaseless twitching. He wiped at his brow, then his nose. "Thought I saw you talking earlier."

"No," Amanda said, perhaps a little too quickly.

Olivia shook her head, eyes never straying from the man in front of her—or the revolver that kept wavering between a headshot and one to the chest. (Doubtful this goon knew where to locate the heart, but even cokeheads got lucky sometimes.) A few more inches and the gun might be close enough to grab. It was risky, but Olivia had lightning-fast reflexes when it came to disarming criminals. Even Amanda, who had been dubbed everything from hotfoot to Tails—Sonic the Hedgehog's blonder, vulpine sidekick—by her colleagues, didn't have the captain's ability to maneuver someone out of their weapon quite like that. It required laser focus, precision, a hundred percent surety of one's own movements.

Olivia's upraised hands were quaking. Only a small flicker in her pinky and ring fingers, but it was enough. If she couldn't keep steady on the outside, her insides were probably worse. She wouldn't chance a dangerous takedown in that state, especially with so many civilians nearby.

"They're together," said one of those innocent bystanders—the businessman, still kneeling proposal-style in the midst of his scattered papers. "They were ahead of me in line, fighting. I think they're a couple."

Several choice words came to mind as Amanda glared down at the Armani-clad jackass who had just ratted them out. She really should have put a knee in his groin, instead of his briefcase. But there were other bigger creeps to worry about at the moment, and she didn't like the way one of them was eyeing Olivia.

"Lesbians, huh?" Alpha scratched at his chin, picking absently at a telltale scab, of which he had many. Coke bugs. Fool did so much blow, he hallucinated insects burrowing into his skin. And he was grinning at Olivia like she had just offered him an eight ball. "That's hot."

 _How original_ , Amanda thought, with disgust. Since she and the captain had started dating, they had come across a homophobe or two, but much more plentiful were the sleazy men who sought to fetishize female couples. Weeks earlier, while dining at their favorite little Italian place on Bond—they'd had one of their first dates there, and the candlelit wine cellar was particularly romantic, even for a no-frills kind of girl like Amanda—a man had approached her at the bar, put a hand on her lower back, and murmured that he would love to take her and "the shapely brunette" home with him for the evening. The shapely brunette had been ready to take his head off when Amanda laughed her way back to their table and relayed the message. Now, though, Olivia said nothing, her lips set in a firm line as she gazed through Alpha like he wasn't there. She seldom zoned out anymore, but when she did, it looked a lot like that.

"Don't be embarrassed. I'm all for it," Alpha continued, but thankfully he was too high to remain on topic for long. He began to single out other patrons with the muzzle of his gun, starting with the Muslim woman and her son. "We got the Arabs over here. Got us a black chick, a brother collecting your valuables—" He tossed a wave at Kilo, who was indeed holding out the empty duffel bag to each person he passed, as if he were collecting tithes in church, rather than divesting someone of their property. "Mike's a Jew, right Mikey? And I think my man in the monkey suit's got some Asian persuasion going on. We're all about the diversity up in here. Wave that rainbow flag, baby."

The entire speech was nauseating, especially coming from a greasy-haired white boy, but the most infuriating part was hearing him call Olivia by the pet name Amanda favored most for her. It didn't exactly fit—that cutesy little moniker—not for such a strong and remarkable woman as Captain Benson. But her cheeks pinkened sweetly and she looked so genuinely pleased whenever Amanda whispered it in her ear, often at their most intimate moments, it had taken on a sort of sacred quality for Amanda. Nobody else had the right to call Olivia their baby.

Nobody.

"Spare us your white supremacy bullshit," snapped the pixie girl with the shorn curls, the one he had dubbed the "black chick." She had assumed a much more relaxed posture, elbows propped on the knees of her folded legs. With a sigh, she leaned forward, steepled her fingers in a decidedly executive pose, and shook her head in disdain. "Fucking honky."

Amanda held her breath, half-expecting the gunman to erupt with anger, or possibly bullets. Instead, he seemed to falter for a moment, looking almost chastened. It struck her as odd, but then, cocaine did have that effect on people. Her own sister—little Kimmie, who had followed her around like a shadow their entire childhood—had become a total stranger to her as an adult, thanks to the hard drugs and the untreated mental illness.

He had started to lower his weapon when the girl spoke out again, her voice clipped and commanding for someone the size of an eighth grader:

"She's probably a cop, too. Get her piece, and get on with it."

 _Shit_. Amanda glanced sharply in the girl's direction, wondering what the hell her problem was. So much for solidarity among hostages. Between buzz-cut girl and briefcase man, they would all be lucky to make it out of this clusterfuck alive. To be honest, Amanda's only concern was the woman everyone had turned to stare at, waiting with bated breath for her answer when Alpha demanded, "You a cop, too?"

Lips pursed tightly, Olivia gave a noncommittal tilt of the head that might have been a yes or a no. She could bluff with the best of them, sometimes even well enough to fool Amanda herself; although, that was mostly reserved for surprises, such as the impromptu weekend getaway she'd plotted behind Amanda's back a few months earlier. But when she got caught in a real lie, one that required some moral tap dancing or duplicitous improvisation, she couldn't quite pull it off. She was too damned honest, her face too expressive. Those brown eyes always told you exactly what she was thinking, if you were paying attention. Amanda loved that about her.

"I'm a captain in the NYPD," Olivia said, though it came out too thinly to be very convincing. She had visible difficulty swallowing, and her chest hitched once, then twice, before she continued. "But robbery doesn't fall under my purview. It makes no difference to me how much money you take, all I care about is the safety of these people. How about you let some of them go? The little boy and his mother, maybe."

"And me." The suit. Thankfully, no one acknowledged him.

"Nice try." Alpha shook his head at first, then waggled the revolver back and forth like it was declining the suggestion as well. "I think I'll keep everyone right where they are. Except you. You're gonna give me the gun and get on your pretty little knees like a good girl, Captain."

Though his tone wasn't particularly lewd, the connotations of the words stirred a sense of dread in the pit of Amanda's stomach. And if she felt it, she knew with absolute certainty that Olivia felt it too—and ten times worse. Olivia had been the one handcuffed to a prison door and raped by a man whose name she occasionally whimpered in her sleep twelve years later, dreaming of how he stood over her, leering and forcing her mouth wide open. (Sometimes her jaw clicked, but Amanda had never had the heart to inquire about it.)

She was the one who had to watch as William Lewis made an old woman go down on her knees for him; all the while, he locked eyes with Olivia, taunting her with threats of similar treatment, as he thrust into the other woman's mouth. (That delightful little tidbit, Amanda happened upon in Mrs. Mayer's victim statement, and never forgot.)

At the tender age of ten years old, Olivia had seen her mother kneel to fellate a perfect stranger in their living room, an experience that coincided with the increasing physical abuse Serena Benson visited on her only daughter. (Olivia still wouldn't call it that, adamant that a few slaps, some hand-shaped bruises, and a drunken attempt at murder with a broken vodka bottle did not equate to being beaten. It never failed to amaze Amanda how adept the captain was at minimizing her own trauma, like so many survivors.)

And, not quite a year ago, Thaddeus Orion had put Olivia on her knees on the hard stone, placed a gun to her forehead, and made her believe she would either die or be raped a fourth time, and then die. (Amanda had believed it too, even though she now claimed otherwise. Olivia needed to hear that it never would have happened, despite Orion's sick taunting. They both needed that peace of mind.)

No, on her knees was not a good place for Olivia Benson to be.

The shift was subtle at first. It started in her cheeks, which paled several shades as Alpha took another step closer. "Don't touch me," she said sharply, shrinking from the hand he reached out towards her coat zipper. It was in her voice too, the vocal cords so tight they sounded like a guitar string about to snap.

 _Breathe_ , Amanda coached silently, her heartbeat quickening, keeping time with her own rapid breaths. Olivia's chest was heaving as if she'd just jogged the entire flight of stairs outside the Supreme Court building. She hadn't crossed over into a full panic yet, but she was straddling the fence. She could barely undo the zipper to reach for her weapon, and when she carefully withdrew it from under her coat—Alpha thrust the revolver at her face, discouraging any heroic notions—it juddered in her outstretched hand.

"You wearing a drop?" he asked, swiping the gun with more force than necessary. He stuffed it into the back of his waistband and cocked a strange little grin at Olivia when she shook her head. His intentions became clear a second later when he clamped a hand onto Olivia's shoulder—quicker than he looked, it turned out—spun her around and began patting her down.

"Oh, come on," Amanda said loudly. After years of yelling at refs for bad calls, she knew how to make her disgust heard. She threw her back against Mike the guard, but the guy was built like a brick shithouse, if the brick was out of shape and lumpy. "Get your damn hands off her."

"Uh-oh, I think the wifey's jealous." Alpha leaned his chin on Olivia's shoulder, speaking into her ear as his palms wandered aimlessly over her hips and backside. He had learned his technique from bad television, but that also meant he wasn't thorough and the search ended without any undue groping, thank goodness.

Still, the captain had stiffened under his touch, her head bent low, long hair shielding her face. Amanda had seen that same hunched posture before, on Olivia and on Frannie when she felt threatened. For Olivia, it was a retreat inside herself. She didn't let anyone but Amanda stand behind her like that, the way William Lewis had while she was duct taped, spread-eagle, to a table, waiting to be raped. Amanda would never forget the empty look in Olivia's eyes in the immediate aftermath of Lewis' death; she'd had a job to do, ushering little Amelia Cole to safety, but the image of the traumatized woman's abnormally pale face splattered in blood, eyes blank and staring, had seared itself onto her brain the moment she mounted the granary stairs and assessed the horrific scene.

It was there again, that emptiness, when Alpha turned Olivia back around to face him, her hair swept aside by the movement. Her warm brown irises were the loveliest Amanda had ever seen—the soul behind them lovelier yet—but now they were void, absent some vital component that made them human, lifelike. Made them Olivia. It chilled Amanda to the bone whenever she witnessed that absence. What if, one day, Olivia—her compassionate, fierce, steadfast Liv—didn't return from the faraway place she escaped to?

"I'll be needing this, I'm afraid." Alpha eyed the engagement ring on Olivia's hand, still surrendering at chest level, and plucked it off without any resistance. She hadn't been wearing it long enough for it to become melded to her finger the way rings had a tendency to do. "Sorry, wifey," he said over his shoulder to Amanda.

She'd been the one who picked the ring out, he wasn't wrong there. It took weeks of scouring jewelry stores and waffling between decisions like carat size (she hadn't even known there were two separate types, one a measure of weight, the other of purity) and cut (princess, pear, motherfucking _baguette_ ), before she spotted the perfect amalgam of all those mind-numbing details. She would call it kismet, if she believed in such a thing. The jeweler was busy extolling the beauty of rose gold on a multitude of skin tones—which was both ridiculous and irrelevant, because Olivia looked good in any color—when Amanda interrupted him mid-rapture, jabbing her finger down on the glass case, and stating, "That one."

Round cut, white gold, Victorian trim. Elegant, but not too flashy. A tasteful, understated bit of shimmer that didn't detract from the captain's strength or authority, but also made it clear she was taken by someone who knew what an extraordinary woman they were getting. Amanda had racked up weeks of OT to buy that ring—its mate, which Olivia insisted on paying for, was currently tucked somewhere in between Amanda's back and Mike's potbelly—and now it was going into the gunman's pocket, along with the watch that she had squabbled over with Olivia, minutes earlier.

"And this can go to Kilo," said Alpha, tugging the vegan leather bag off Olivia's shoulder and holding it out to the kid as he approached.

Amanda had teased her incessantly about that bag when she bought it, asking what next, legumes for dinner, romantic candlelit seaweed baths, shoes made from mushrooms? Olivia responded by ordering steak on their next night out and consuming it so voraciously, Amanda had been tempted to spirit her off to the ladies' room for a quickie. She didn't, of course—that wasn't Olivia's style—but she'd been tempted all the same.

She wanted the damn robbery to be over with, so she could go to her fiancée, hold her close, and once more feel that sweet, easy intimacy they shared. After this, she would walk the straight and narrow. No more baiting Olivia into arguments, no more jealousy. No more daydreaming about all the comforts she could provide for her wife and kids, with just a few well-placed bets.

In other words, no more of the pitfalls she'd watched her daddy stumble into, time and again. That bastard had been digging the holes himself.

Just when it seemed as if Alpha might finally move on to tormenting another victim, he pointed the muzzle of his gun towards the floor, then back at Olivia's face. "Kneel."

And when she didn't comply: "Bitch, I'm not asking." He grasped roughly at the base of her neck where it curved into shoulder, his thumb embedded in her jugular notch. (Amanda loved to kiss that spot.) Inches above, though hardly visible to the casual observer, was the scar left behind by the Mangler's razor.

Alpha's attempts to force Olivia down in front of him became more aggressive the longer she refused to budge, and she rocked back a step to keep her balance, neck and shoulders scrunched against the brutal grip, her features twisted in pain. Each breath was a frantic, labored gasp. She clawed at his arm, unsuccessfully trying to pry him off.

"Let her go!" Amanda shouted, her voice sounding like a bullhorn in the vast, mostly silent room. She opened her mouth again, and a siren came out.

As she watched Alpha cock his arm back, preparing to pistol-whip Olivia with his big gun, time slowed down and she became aware of several things at once: first, she realized that the sirens were coming from police cars, which were swerving up onto the curb outside; second, she felt Mike's grip on her arms go slack as he turned to gape at the officers pouring from inside the vehicles; and third, she was charging towards Olivia and the man trying to harm her.

She had learned early on not to jump into the fray unless you were ready to get your ass switched raw by your daddy. Honestly, it hadn't dissuaded her much. Grade school teachers could never understand why Mandy Rollins, otherwise teacher's pet right up until junior high, was unable to sit still in her seat. There was a tree in her backyard with a thousand good reasons sprouting from its branches. And it didn't matter how carefully you chose. Each one stung the same.

Amanda ran faster than she had probably ever run in her life, but it still wasn't enough. Seconds before she reached Olivia, the gun went off. It wasn't as loud as she'd expected. More like a semi-automatic than a revolver. She stopped short, her feet suddenly cemented to the floor, and stared in horror at the woman she was going to marry. Her city girl. The only person she had ever truly been in love with. The person who had just gotten shot right in front of her.

But she couldn't find the blood. It should have been gushing out of Olivia in buckets, spreading across the front of her caramel sweater like an ever-expanding Valentine's Day heart. The bullet should have left a crater in her head or chest, her insides on the outside—mincemeat. She was fully, beautifully intact. Other than the anguish on her tear-stained face and the agonized cry on her lips, she seemed uninjured.

It pained Amanda to see her like that, to have failed  
( _yet again_ )  
at protecting her. The pain was so tangible and so stark, Amanda felt it rip through her gut, a brilliant white heat that turned everything in her field of vision hyperreal. She saw the milky rims of Kilo and Alpha's eyes, widened in shock. She saw straight into the bore of the gun that the pixie girl had fired at her, smoke still wafting from its tip like baby powder  
( _Tilly, fresh out of the tub_ )  
the dark black hole opening up to swallow her—Alice, chasing that elusive white rabbit. She saw the tracks of Olivia's tears, coursing down her cheeks in crystalline streams so vivid she could taste them.

Wanting to comfort her, Amanda stretched out a hand and said, "Don't cry, city girl." Or tried to, before an excruciating cramp in her abdomen snatched her breath away, and the words along with it. Not until she glanced down and noticed the blood oozing from a puncture in the lining of her puffy winter coat did her muddled brain piece it all together: she was the one who got shot.

And then she was falling too, just like Alice down that never-ending rabbit hole.

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 4: Fallen Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, it's Wednesday! Time for an update! Thanks for the chapter 3 reviews. Hopefully y'all survived the last couple days, after that cliffhanger. Can't wait to hear what you think of chapter 4. :) I'm putting a **TW** on it for some mild violence and references to rape. **/TW** Happy reading.

* * *

_Hush-a-bye, don't you cry_   
_Go to sleep, my little baby_   
_When you wake you shall have_   
_All the pretty little horses_

\- Traditional lullaby

* * *

## CHAPTER 4: Fallen Angel

**. . .**

"Don't cry, city gir—"

If Olivia was crying, she didn't feel it. She had gone numb around the time Alpha did the body search. The hands hadn't belonged to him as they traversed her breasts, hips, buttocks—they were Lewis' hands, violating her at every turn, touching her in places only a lover should touch. As they tried to force her down, they were Harris' hands, positioning her for his pleasure. And as one reared back to strike, it was Calvin's hand, straight razor at the ready. Orion had been there too, hovering on the outskirts of her consciousness, but he was much easier to ignore. She barely remembered the sound of his voice anymore.

How long would it take to forget this man's voice telling her to get on her pretty little knees like a good girl, she wondered. How long to forget the gunshot that destroyed her whole world?

The world crashing down in front of her.

"Amanda," she gasped, lunging forward to catch the blonde as she collapsed. She was dead weight in Olivia's arms, the bullet already rendering her as limp as one of those rag dolls she so hated. But the blood pouring out of her was very real. It trickled onto the top of Olivia's boots as she struggled to remain upright, and when she sank to the ground with her arms under Amanda's, it seeped warmly into her sweater and slacks. She shifted Amanda into the crook of one arm, cradling her upper body, the rest of her slender frame draped over Olivia's lap. She'd never noticed how small the blonde really was, until that moment. Fragile, almost.

"Oh my God." Olivia whispered the phrase repeatedly under her breath, the only prayer she could think of. She didn't close her eyes, afraid to look away from Amanda's upturned face for even a second. It had already taken on a sickly, ashen hue ( _corpselike_ , she thought, unable to stop herself), the blue eyes unnaturally bright and gazing up at her in fear and confusion. "Oh, sweetheart . . . Oh Jesus, no . . . "

For several seconds, she couldn't summon any other word besides that one: no. Such a hollow, useless word. A placebo for those who wanted to believe they had some control, that they could refuse the terrible shit life doled out to them, or at least affect the outcome. But there were men who didn't take no for an answer, despite how loud and long you shouted it at them, and there were people who left you without warning, despite how many times you begged and pleaded with God, "Please, no."

_No, goddammit. Snap out of it._

Olivia shook her head, as if that would dispel the negative thoughts and the tears blurring her vision. She was half aware of people talking around her—the kid called Kilo was asking why Alpha had capped "that lady," even though the reedy girl with short hair had been the one who fired the gun—but her focus was on the woman in her arms. "Amanda baby, stay with me, okay? You're gonna be all right. You're gonna be just fine."

"Liv, wha—? Sh-she shot me." Amanda tried to tip her head back for a glimpse at the girl, but winced instead, pointing vaguely. Her hand shook like a palsied old woman's. "Oh. It hurts. Liv, it hurts r-real bad."

The tearful note in the detective's voice made Olivia ache inside. She had lost track of how many times she'd cried in front of Amanda since their relationship began. It occurred with embarrassing frequency in those early months, when she was still emotionally raw from the untreated PTSD and the new and wonderful world of night terrors. She mostly had it under control now, only allowing the tears through on rough days or when she was overtired.

But Amanda had her beat by a mile. Olivia could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen Amanda cry in the past year: once, while Jesse was in the hospital, eyes swollen shut, her little body covered in head to toe hives, after the bee sting incident—the detective wept openly then, her head on Olivia's shoulder; another time, they had mistakenly chosen to stream the movie _Wonder_ on Netflix night, expecting lighthearted, feel-good fare, and instead getting sucker-punched by a dog death scene that left them both bawling into Frannie and Gigi's fur for the rest of the evening.

And then this last time, when they were tidying the kitchen after Sunday pancakes (blueberry for Noah, plain for Matilda, chocolate chip for everyone else), and Amanda slipped an engagement ring under an upside down coffee cup. Olivia had rolled her eyes at the blonde, who was standing there expectantly, waiting for her to put the last cup away. Everything was a battle of wills with little miss Mandy Jo Rollins, even loading the dishwasher. So, Olivia had relented, grabbing the "World's Best Mommy" mug—and immediately freezing with it midair, a barely audible gasp escaping her lips, which she couldn't seem to close, as she spotted the glittering diamond on the counter, encircled by a larger ring of coffee. She stared at it for a full fifteen seconds, then slipped it on her finger and calmly returned to straightening up. Another fifteen seconds later, Amanda's anxious prancing became too much and Olivia had turned from the sink, wearing an enormous grin.

She'd been planning to propose to Amanda for some time, but in typical Olivia Benson fashion, she had to mull over every decision _ad nauseam_ , from location to ring to exact time and date. Leave it to Detective Sure Shot to be quicker on the draw. (And to pop the question while they were both in their pajamas, hair unbrushed, and makeup free.)

"Yeah?" Amanda asked, such a look of wonder on her face, it brought tears to Olivia's eyes.

Olivia nodded, already too overcome with emotion to speak. "Mm-hmm," she'd managed, though it wasn't fully out before Amanda caught her up in a hug that would have lifted someone less sturdy off the ground.

They were still locked in a tight embrace, alternating between laughter and tears, when the kids wandered into the kitchen, the older two curious why their mothers were acting so strangely. Matilda opted to join the hug, wrapping her tiny arms around a leg apiece and crooning up at them, "No cry, I _yuve_ you," so earnestly, they had looked at each other and burst into tears all over again.

For a while, love was the only thing that made Amanda cry. _Yuve_.

And now, unbelievable pain.

"I know it hurts, love. I'm so sorry." Olivia continued echoing the apology as she untied the sash of Amanda's coat. The bullet had entered on the left, almost precisely where the sash looped around at midriff. Gut shot. Said to be a particularly slow and painful way to die.

_Just ask Mike and Amelia_. The thought drifted up from her subconscious, along with the faces of the former sergeant who died on her watch and the girl who had set her up to be raped and murdered. She pushed them to the back of her mind, refusing to associate their fates with Amanda, and carefully unzipped the blonde's ruined coat, cringing as blood oozed through the zipper teeth, slick as oil.

"Oh, God," she said, opening the coat to reveal a large red stain on the front of Amanda's white button-down shirt. No matter how many times you saw it, there was always too much blood. Especially when it came from someone you loved. "Oh, honey."

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded a female voice behind her. The shooter. Same voice that had ratted Olivia out as a cop.

Without looking up, she untucked Amanda's shirt from her waistband and momentarily fumbled at unbuttoning it from the bottom. The buttons were too slippery, her fingers too wet and jittery to work the damn things. She cast an apologetic glance at her fiancée and yanked the hems apart, splitting the shirt halfway up the middle, buttons scattering. "I have to stop the bleeding."

"Nah, back off. You're a motherfucking cop, not a— Jesus Christ, shut that kid up." The interjection was directed at the mother whose little boy had woken up wailing when the gunshot rang out. Until now, Olivia hadn't even registered the sound of his cries, attributing them to her own screaming insides. "You ain't no doctor, ho. And I wouldn't have shot the skank if I didn't want her to bleed."

This time Olivia did whip her head around to glare at the girl. She was so young and tiny. Olivia wanted to take her apart, piece by piece. Shove that 9mm in her smart-mouthed little face and blow it off. "Yeah, I'm a goddamn cop and we're trained to handle gunshots, genius. We also fight like hell when someone messes with one of our own. And believe me, those guys won't hesitate for a second if they hear you open fire again." She pointed at the entrance, indicating the line of squad cars that barricaded the street, uniforms and ESU officers positioned strategically behind their open doors.

"So, you can either shoot me too, or stay the fuck out of my way, because I am going to help her." With that, she returned to assessing the wound. She might have oversold it a bit—her confidence, the response from outside—but she didn't care. They would have to carry her out in a body bag before she'd abandon Amanda to bleed out on the floor.

And then William Lewis grabbed her by the back of the hair, and jerked. Olivia gave a startled cry, fully expecting to see him standing over her with that smile, that crescent moon scar; instead, she found herself blinking up at the short-haired girl. Up close, she was quite pretty, but her delicate features had a sharp edge, like razor wire or a karambit—one of those sleek, grinning little knives shaped like a tiger claw. She wasn't old enough for it to have hardened yet, that dangerous beauty.

Someday.

"You hear that, Victor? Bitch _wants_ you to shoot her." The girl sneered down at Olivia and nodded to the man with the revolver. Alpha was really Victor, then. And the girl was part of the robbery. A big part, judging by the looks on her cohorts' faces. "Give her what she wants."

Victor promptly raised his gun, aiming just below Olivia's upraised chin. ( _Click._ ) A tug at her hair  
( _not Lewis, not Lewis, not—_ )  
exposed her neck even further and drew a sharp hiss from her lips. If she survived—and surely she would not, with a gun that size, at this range—she'd be paralyzed from the neck down, or hooked to machines for the rest of her life.

She had completed a living will upon entering the force, and updated it every few years, according to department protocol and her evolving wishes. It hadn't changed that much, even after all this time, a fact she was proud of. If the DNR was in her hand right now, she'd sign it all over again. What she regretted most was not having the chance to give Amanda power of attorney. They had planned to do that after the wedding.

And her children . . . her three beautiful babies . . .

"No," Amanda said feebly, trying to sit up in Olivia's arms. She managed to lift her head and one shoulder before slumping back down with a whimper of pain. "Liv."

"Look away, 'Manda," Olivia instructed, though she knew the detective wouldn't listen, just as she herself refused to take her eyes off the man who was about to pull the trigger.

His fingers flexed around the revolver grip several times, as if it were hard to hold onto. He looked half mad, his eyes bugging out of his skull in anticipation, pupils blown wide by whatever drug he was on. The gun gave a telltale shudder in his hand, and he glanced sideways at the double doors and rows of windows with a view to the street beyond.

"Do it, Victor."

"No. Don't." Amanda groped at Olivia's arm until she came to a hand, grabbed it, and squeezed. "Leave 'er be," she muttered breathlessly, each inhalation a deep, wincing effort.

"Look away, Amanda."

"Goddammit, Victor, shoot her!"

The little boy's shrieks reached fever pitch and seemed to go on forever, his convulsive gasps for air making Olivia feel as if she might hyperventilate. She'd forgotten every breathing exercise and grounding technique she knew. The only thing connecting her to reality was Amanda. And the humming.

Attempting to calm her hysterical child, the boy's mother was humming the lullaby "All the Pretty Little Horses." Olivia recognized it from a music box that had belonged to her mother, long ago. One of the fondest memories she had from childhood was sitting at her mother's vanity while Serena brushed her long, raven hair and sang along with the music box. A few years ago, Olivia had rediscovered the tune via Google, only to find out the original lyrics were much darker than she remembered. Something about a lamb having its eyes plucked out. She liked her mother's version better.

She really was going to die at the same age as Serena, after all. Funny, that those should be her last thoughts.

"Man, I can't." Victor dropped the revolver to his side and heaved a defeated sigh, shoulders slouching. "She keeps looking at me. And she's right, those pigs'll probably machine gun this place to shit and back if we start shooting. Maybe we can still get out the back way. Whiskey probably took the van down the alley when the sirens—"

"Whiskey's a fucking dumbass just like you." The girl huffed in disgust, releasing Olivia's hair with a nasty little shove to the back of the head. "You're the reason we're in this mess. If you'd stuck to the plan, instead of dicking around with some dried-up, old lezzy, we'd be long gone by now. I never should've let you take the lead on this one. Machine guns? Fucking dumbass."

Olivia returned to caring for Amanda the moment she was freed, working as quickly as possible while the criminals argued amongst themselves. There was significantly more blood than when she started. She slipped Amanda's arms out of their coat sleeves, trying not to notice how flimsy both limbs were. Seconds ago, the detective had been moving around on her own. That must mean the bullet had missed her spinal cord.

(Please, God, let that be what it meant.)

"I need to see your back, love," Olivia said, and pressed her lips to the blonde head lolling near her shoulder. An apology, not a kiss. She hated to let go of Amanda, for fear of never getting to hold her again, and because any sort of jostling would likely be torturous, with such an injury. But cradling her like an infant while she slipped away was not an acceptable alternative. "It's gonna hurt."

"Jus' do it. I can t-take it," Amanda replied, though her strained voice and wan expression weren't nearly as convincing. Her eyes were a piercing shade of blue that surfaced only when she reached her pinnacle, be it during a heated argument, passionate sex, or excruciating pain. Til now, Olivia had only witnessed the first two.

"'Course you can. I'd never marry a wuss." She offered the closest thing to a smile she could muster, and while Amanda attempted a chuckle—it came out as a single, toneless "heh"—Olivia shifted sideways, easing her onto the floor as gently as possible.

It still wasn't gentle enough. With a low mewling sound, Amanda gave up fending off the tears and began to cry. She slapped at the ground beside her, and when that didn't help, she used the flat of her boots, feet shuffling back and forth on the smooth marble. But she had mobility in her limbs, that was something.

"I need help," Olivia announced, glancing around to find the nearest friendly face. She settled on the boy they called Kilo. He was one of them, but he didn't look high and he had seemed upset with the girl for shooting Amanda. "You. Help me turn her."

"Me?" Kilo did a double-take, hand splayed on his chest. He peered nervously side to side, searching for someone to take his place. Finding no volunteers, he set the duffel bag down slowly and made to join Olivia at Amanda's side.

"The fuck you going, li'l bro?" asked the girl, her tone peevish, though not disdainful like it had been with Victor. "You ain't gotta help that white bitch just 'cause she snaps her fingers."

"I'm not doing it because of that." Kilo spoke so softly, it was difficult to hear him over the little boy—the long, racking sobs had ebbed to a quiet but steady sniveling that sounded like the drone of a beehive—and that song and the shouting from the street. (It had all merged into white noise in Olivia's ears.)

He gestured to Amanda. "We can't just let her lay there and die. You know she's right about what they do to cop killers. Especially the black ones."

"You're not dying," Olivia said firmly, cupping Amanda's cheek when the blonde cast a frightened look up at her. "I will not let that happen to you."

And though she couldn't truly make that promise, she meant it all the same. If she had to lie, steal, cheat or kill, she would get Amanda out of this alive. She waved Kilo over again, ignoring his miffed accomplice and instructing him to turn Amanda on her side. The exit wound was a starburst of ragged skin and crimson gore that made Olivia's stomach churn. But the bullet had gone clean through, and that was better than having it lodged inside, wreaking God only knew what kind of internal havoc.

Bunching the detective's coat into a bloody heap, she pressed it to the wound, starting almost as violently as Amanda did at the contact. "I know. I'm sorry," she said, and continued repeating the apology until she and Kilo had lowered Amanda back down against the balled up coat.

"Sonuvabitch." Amanda grasped at her thighs, fingers digging into her blood-stained dress pants, little red crescents appearing beneath each fingernail. A continuous stream of tears leaked from her eyes, and she desperately needed a tissue for her runny nose. "Gahdamn, that smarts."

"Almost done," Olivia offered. Total BS, and they both knew it. If the back had been tender, the stomach would be even worse. She shrugged out of her parka, folding the unwieldy, puffy material as flat as it would go, and poised the bundle just above the pool of blood that was once Amanda's abdomen. God, _there was so much of it . . ._

"Do it." Teeth gritted, Amanda gave an urgent nod. Whenever the unpleasant aspects of being a police officer presented themselves at work—department meetings, quarterly evaluations, insipid galas, and all the other requisite ass-kissing—she was usually the first one in and the first one out. Just ready to get it over with. Olivia's most impetuous detective, but also her most prompt and efficient.

Her most everything.

Holding her breath, Olivia placed the coat against the smaller, more defined entry wound and pressed down as hard as she dared. She didn't close her eyes, though she longed to. If she had to cause Amanda pain, she would experience every moment of it right along with her.

The writhing was the worst part. Under the sheets, bodies slick and entangled, it was pure bliss; on the bank floor, blood squelching beneath them—a pure nightmare. After months of therapy, antidepressants, and clinging to Gigi's warm, furry body all night, Olivia had thought the bad dreams were finally over. But here was one in bright, living color.

(What had Amelia said when Calvin shot her? _So red . . ._ So red, indeed.)

No, scratch that. The strangled cry Amanda let slip was worse than the writhing. She was trying to tough it out, despite the hole in her gut. Trying and failing. Even the pale roots of her hair were washed out, a sallow tint replacing the sunflower blonde strands. Her eyelashes were barely visible, fluttering rapidly as she fought to stay conscious.

"You're doing so good, sweetie," Olivia murmured, only aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks now that she couldn't wipe them away. "Hang in there with me, okay? We'll get you out of here soon, I promise."

"She ain't going nowhere. And neither are you." The girl sidled into Olivia's peripheral vision, gun held at a lazy angle. There was no telling where the bullet would end up if she fired it like that. She knew how to handle the weapon, though. Proof of that was congealing in a puddle under Olivia's knees. "In fact, you've had way too much freedom already. Victor, gimme a zip tie."

A sickening feeling swept over Olivia, raising bile in the back of her throat. With her wrists zip-tied together, she wouldn't be able to help Amanda, her number one priority. She wanted to leave it at that, and forget about the other reasons why her stomach dropped at the thought of having her hands bound. There were whole weeks at a time when she didn't think about those things anymore. At least not much.

But she knew: the minute a zip tie was in place, she would be right back in that prison basement, handcuffed to a locked door, with him in her mouth . . . on that rickety bed, cuffed to an iron bar—almost a murder weapon—while he stood over her like an angry god, promising famine, conquest, war, death . . . on the other iron bed, still bound by the rope she'd been hanging from, while he sat astride her like she was a goddamn horse, degrading her until she _did_ feel less than human . . .

She knew, because it had happened before. When she'd been taken hostage with the Crivello family in their townhouse, electrical cord wrapped around her wrists so tightly she had welts for days, sounds of the teenage daughter being raped filtering in from the next room, it was all she could do to keep a tenuous hold on reality. To not replay every single moment with Lewis at the Mayer's house, from watching him violate an old woman less than two feet from where she sat, to the woman's screams when he burned her because Olivia tried to look away. If not for the Crivello children, and her own little boy waiting for her at home, Olivia might have checked out completely during that encounter.

She came close again, while talking Lourdes Vega down from killing her rapist. Even though Olivia had put the cuffs on herself that time, and even though her hands were in front—not high overhead or pinned painfully behind—it still took her breath away to hear those bracelets click shut. And listening to Lourdes detail her rape by the man she'd taken hostage had dredged up memories Olivia didn't even know were there, and some she could never forget. Their smells, the feel of their bodies against hers, the singing. By the time Lourdes was taken into custody, Olivia had felt even more trapped by the memories than by the handcuffs, though she had needed Fin to undo the latter because her hands were shaking so badly.

Needless to say, being restrained was a major trigger for her. One she couldn't afford to let overwhelm her right then. Not when Amanda needed her, and not with so many people watching. Captains in the NYPD didn't get to dissolve into a panic during a crisis—not if they wanted to keep their jobs, anyway.

"You can't put that on me," Olivia said, a bit more harshly than she intended, as Victor fetched a nylon tie from inside Kilo's abandoned duffel bag and trotted it over to his partner. She swallowed hard, trying to force down the knot in her throat. Her voice still came out like a rusty hinge. "I need to keep pressure on her wound, otherwise she'll . . . it'll just bleed worse. I can't do it with my hands cuff— tied behind my back."

"Then I guess your little snow bunny is screwed," said the girl, giving the zip tie a toss at Kilo, who was still kneeling beside Amanda. It landed high on her chest, where the top half of her shirt remained buttoned, and she flinched as if the gun had gone off again. "You do her, K. Since you like her so much."

"Alpha." Gazing up at the girl, the kid gave a faint, discouraging shake of his head. "Come on. She's not bothering us. The lady needs her help   
and—"

"Do. Her."

Two things became clear to Olivia as she observed their exchange: Alpha was indeed the leader's name, but the leader just happened to be a pint-sized young woman who looked more like a Little Leaguer than a bank robber; and she hadn't called the kid "li'l bro" in jest—they resembled each other so closely, they might have been twins, but were most certainly siblings. They were also staring each other down so intently, the sudden, shrill ring of the telephone in the now-quiet room was a jolt to the system. It went unanswered for several more rings, while they continued waiting for the other to fold.

"You should answer that," Olivia ventured carefully, keeping her eyes on Amanda, her hands firm over the wound. She didn't want to see Alpha coming for her, if it happened. She didn't know what she would do in retaliation. ( _Nothing good._ ) "It's a hostage negotiator. They want to know what your demands are."

"My demands."

"What you want out of all this." Olivia heard the sneer in her own voice, but doubted anyone besides Amanda could detect it. And just then, the blonde was too distracted by the newly acquired burrow in her abdomen to notice. Beads of perspiration dotted her clammy forehead, even as her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Olivia eased up on the bandage long enough to shake off her blazer, one sleeve at a time, and drape it around Amanda's shoulders. "Cash, a vehicle, safe passage, that sort of thing. I'd ask for bulletproof vests, if I were you."

From the corner of her eye, she saw the gun rise in her direction. _Pow_ , mouthed the girl known as Alpha. And out loud: "I know what demands are, bitch. Right now, mine is for you to shut the fuck up and let me think. Kilo! Tie her, and if she keeps talking, stuff something in her mouth."

( _I can go for hours with a ripe little cunt like you._ )

After a second of complete silence—quiet as the grave, wasn't that the phrase?—the phone started ringing again. Kilo picked up the zip tie that Olivia had brushed aside when she covered Amanda with her blazer. He slid it between his fingers several times, waiting until the girl approached the counter and gestured at a teller to hand over the phone. "It'll be easier on you and your wife if we just do what she says," he murmured, reaching for Olivia's wrist.

"N-not married." Amanda grimaced as if she were well into a strenuous set of abdominal crunches. The poor thing had spent weeks getting back into shape after being stabbed in the stomach with a screwdriver by escaped convict Tad Orion, working off the so-called "flab" she'd accrued while healing. (If there had been any extra girth, Olivia had neither seen, nor felt it.) Now, she couldn't take a deep breath without wincing. "Yet," she finished with a gasp.

"Shhh." Olivia jerked her arm out of Kilo's loose grip and stroked the damp bangs away from Amanda's brow. She needed one more moment before the noose tightened on her wrists, dragging her down into that dark, bleak world she spent every waking minute avoiding. A world where the demons wore human faces like masks, and their names slithered through your ears with a hiss . . . _Harris, Lewis, Arliss . . ._

One more moment with Amanda, before all that madness. Olivia leaned in and kissed her fiancée on the cheek, then pressed her own cheek to the same spot. "Be still, my love," she whispered into one delicate ear. Amanda's midnight ocean scent—a smell Olivia had come to associate with home and safety, with unfathomable love—was gone, replaced by sweat and blood. "Just a little while longer."

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 5: Act of God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the awesome reviews of chapter 4. I'm so glad the emotion and intensity came through in that one. This chapter was actually part of that one, but I split it when I was adding chapter breaks. Just a little FYI: a lot of the chapters are around this length, with a few that are maybe a little shorter and a few that are a couple thousand words longer. And I feel like I should clarify that there will be 38 chapters, but it'll total 40 with the prologue and epilogue. Wanted to give that heads-up so we don't get to CH38 and everyone's anticipating two more chapters, when it'll just be the epilogue left. Anyway. That's a while from now, thank goodness. **TW** References to rape and some violence **/TW** Also, I'm with y'all about feeling bad for our ladies not being able to catch a break, but I really love the drama, too. I can't go very long without writing it. Sorry if I seem like a sadist, lol.

## CHAPTER 5: Act of God

**. . .**

When Olivia righted herself, Kilo was waiting. She assented with a glance at her wrists, but didn't let up on the parka that grew denser by the second, its down insides filling with blood like a hungry tick. "Can you please just leave them in front so I can at least keep pressure on her wound?" she asked, eyes tracking his every movement.

He nodded solemnly, hesitant as he looped the nylon strip around her wrists. It was obvious he'd never used a zip tie on anyone before in his life. He barely knew how to thread the ends together.

"—black van with tinted windows. Yeah. Okay, fine, only the top six inches tinted on the windshield then. Jesus." Alpha had hopped onto the counter to sit cross-legged between the partitions that separated one teller window from the next. Using her gun as a pointer, she directed a heavyset woman behind the counter to keep filling the duffel bag with cash when the other employees' drawers ran dry. She pinned the telephone between her ear and shoulder, her free hand picking at the loose sole of her hiking boot. "Uh-huh. And none of you assholes tailing us. We get safe passage out of here, or no deal."

She glanced over at Olivia, eyes narrowed. Pow. "Throw in some bulletproof vests, too. Four of 'em. Oh, and a pair of Timberland boots. The yellow kind. Women's, size six." Dangling her slender legs over the counter, she dropped to the floor and stamped her heel a few times, lodging the sole back in place.

"Your sister sounds like someone who knows what she wants," Olivia said softly, her chest hitching with each breath. Kilo had left a big enough gap in the zip tie for her hands to slip out, if she worked at it. But it was still a struggle to stay present and focused. She had no feeling from the wrists down. And no matter how many times she told herself it was an illusion, she could smell him behind her—on her. _In_ her.

( _Better than red velvet._ And then he had licked her off his nicotine-stained, scabbed-over finger like a kid with a popsicle. Sometimes—not often, and not for more than a passing moment, but sometimes—she couldn't stand to smell herself on Amanda's hands after sex. Even her lovely, lionhearted Amanda . . .)

Focus. Breathe.

"What about you, Kilo?" She tipped her head, trying to catch the boy's eye. He couldn't be more than seventeen. And a young seventeen, not the ruthless, brutal seventeen she encountered all too frequently on the job. This kid had a conscience. He could be reached.

"What do you want?" she asked, and nodded down at her detective. "Surely not this. If she doesn't— if your sister kills someone, she'll go down hard. All of you will. If you even make it out of here alive. You need to stop this."

Kilo finally looked up at her with wide, sorrowful brown eyes. "I don't know how," he whispered. "I told her this was a bad idea. She won't listen to me. She won't listen to anybody."

"Can you—"

"Hey, cop lady, what's your name?" Alpha called, resting the mouthpiece of the telephone under her chin. She had sauntered over to check the progress of the almost-full duffel, smiling as she leaned in to take a whiff of the money inside. "I wanna let them know whose head I'll blow off first, if they try to pull any bullshit."

"Benson." Olivia licked her dry lips. She desperately wanted some  
( _vodka_ )  
water. "Captain Olivia Benson of SVU."

Affecting a snooty tone and an expression to match, Alpha spoke into the phone again: "Captain Olivia Benson. S-U— whatever, she's important."

"Tell them Detective Amanda Rollins is wounded and needs medical attention," Olivia said in the levelest voice she could muster. She expected to be ignored altogether, but for Amanda's sake, she at least had to try.

"Oh yeah." Alpha pushed off the counter ledge, straightened to her full height—five-two at best—and strolled over, with a little smirk on her face. Her boots halted just outside the halo of blonde hair that spread from beneath Amanda's head, and she squatted down to examine the detective more closely. "Another cop went and got herself shot. Some pasty white chick named Rawlings. Kinda cute before she started bleeding all over the place. She a natural blonde?"

The girl looked to Olivia for a response, her eyes crinkled at the corners, as if she had supplied a witty remark. Olivia caught herself calculating how quickly she could spring forward, knock the gun aside, loop her arms around the girl's slender neck, and . . . "If you let her leave, they will consider it a show of good faith," she said, each word measured to the precise dose. Too much or too little might do more harm than good. "They will be more willing to agree to your terms—"

Alpha huffed in annoyance and held up her index finger for silence, thrusting it at Olivia's face. Her smile returned when Olivia shrank away from the oncoming hand, and it widened even further, displaying two rows of prominent but perfectly aligned teeth, when she spotted the zip tie. She tossed her brother a sly wink, then puckered her lips at Amanda, leaving a kiss on the air above, before she got back to her feet.

"Bitch," Amanda wheezed, a grunt of pain cutting the curse short. Her hands were curled into fists at her sides, and she struck them against her thighs, delivering several harsh blows. She was working herself up to tears again, her face still streaked in moisture from the previous round. It sputtered from her lips, clogged her nose, and crystallized her fair eyelashes. She looked like she was drowning.

"Put your hands here," Olivia instructed Kilo, giving him no choice but to obey as she grabbed his wrists and guided his hands over, pushing them down firmly onto the parka. He cringed at touching the bloody bundle, but continued pressing on it when she gradually released him. Satisfied that he wouldn't let go, she shuffled on her knees until she was closer to Amanda's shoulder. "Hey, shhh."

Gently, she used the back of her hands to dry the tears on Amanda's cheeks. It required bending her left wrist in a direction made awkward by the zip tie and the fracture from seven years ago, from Lewis—long since healed, although never quite as functional afterwards. _Just like the rest of me_ , she thought, unable to dismiss the negativity that crept in whenever her defenses were down. But damaged or not, she needed to calm Amanda.

"Try to breathe, baby," she said, demonstrating with deep, steady breaths of her own. She pinched the snot from under Amanda's nose with practiced fingers—tissues were often in short supply in a home with three small children—and wiped it on her slacks. Then she cupped her palms lightly to either side of Amanda's face. "Focus on my voice. I'm right here with you. We'll get through this together, okay?"

"Uh-huh." Amanda struggled to follow along with each intake of breath, her cheeks bulging as she blew it back out shakily. She gave a miserable groan, appearing to deflate under the blazer. "Hurts, Liv. Can't. I'm . . . I'm . . ."

Whatever came next faded off as Amanda's consciousness tried to do the same. She blinked rapidly, only the whites of her eyes showing behind flickering lids. For one horrible second, the image of Meredith Ashton's eyeless, bloodless corpse flashed across Olivia's mind's eye, and her heart seized up painfully in her chest. She couldn't recall the symptoms of cardiac arrest in women, just that they were different from what men experienced.

No, dammit, she didn't get to die—not like this. And neither did her fiancée.

"Stay awake, Rollins. Hey." Olivia patted Amanda's cheeks briskly, first one side and then the other. She took her by the chin, giving a firm little shake. "You hear me, Detective? That's a direct order."

"Yeah, Cap'n," Amanda said thinly, widening her eyes and bringing Olivia into focus with obvious effort. Her petulant frown resembled the one Jesse—a bear when she first woke up—wore on the mornings she didn't want to go to school. "I hear ya. Don't hafta shout."

Olivia's relieved laugh came out more like a sob. She swallowed it down and stroked Amanda's damp hair back from her face. "Sorry, honey," she said, softening her tone, though she had been speaking at a normal volume. "Just need you to stay with me, okay?"

"Not goin' anywhere." Amanda's bloodied hand wavered into the air, and she thumbed at the engagement ring on her fourth finger—the matching band Olivia had insisted on paying for, after finding out it was on hold until Amanda could afford another large credit card bill. Now, the center stone had a red cast to it; an honest-to-God blood diamond. "Can't get r-rid of me that easy."

Catching the errant hand with both of her own, Olivia brought it to her lips and kissed the knuckles. She tasted blood afterwards, but didn't care. Amanda was as much a part of her as the air in her lungs, the marrow in her bones, the beating of her heart. "Never." She kissed Amanda's fingers a second time. "We're just getting started, you and I."

"Hate to break up your lesbian remake of _Titanic_ over here, but Jack's gotta go." Alpha had returned, idly twirling the cordless phone and bouncing it against her thigh. The handset was mute, no illumination on the keypad. Conversation over. She hitched her thumb towards the exit. "You were right, they want a trade. I said I'd give 'em the blonde. I ain't going to prison for her skinny, albino ass. Besides, she's stinking up the place."

Several sharp retorts came to mind, but Olivia held her tongue. She couldn't risk pissing the girl off and ruining Amanda's chance to get out, no matter how good it might feel to tell Alpha _her_ skinny ass would still be getting tossed so far back into prison, she'd never see daylight again. Olivia was going to make damn sure of that.

"Thank you," she said, careful to leave off any inflection one way or the other. She wouldn't be rude, but she wouldn't be a kiss-ass, either. "You're making the right decision."

Alpha's lip curled up in a slow, scornful smile. For one brief moment, she looked like someone about to pull the trigger. Most people had to steel themselves before shooting at a human target, but the dangerous ones—those who reveled in the kickback, the deafening bang, and the chaos that followed—those were the ones to watch out for. She was part of that group, the revelers; behind her dark eyes, chaos waited to be unleashed. "I didn't do it for you. And don't get too excited. You're staying here with me, O. You're my ticket out of this shitshow."

"No," Amanda croaked, tightening her grip on Olivia's hand. She barely had the strength it took to hold a cup of coffee. "I go, sh-she goes."

"Amanda." Olivia shook her head, discouraging the ultimatum. She hated the idea of sending her fiancée off alone in an ambulance, for what most certainly would be a major surgery and a precarious post-op recovery (many didn't make it past that stage), while she stayed behind with a trigger-happy waif who was quite literally gunning for her. But there were at least twenty other people in the bank who deserved to leave just as much as she did, and like it or not, it was her duty to put them first.

"She'll go," she said to Alpha, avoiding Amanda's watery, pleading gaze. The detective wasn't thinking clearly, her judgment clouded by pain and fear; she wanted Olivia to react like a woman in love, not a cop. It tore at Olivia's heart not to be able to give her that. "I'll stay."

"L-Liv, no. I—"

"If she's your ticket, how about letting the rest of us go?" It was the prick with the briefcase. He had somehow managed to strike a power pose, even while seated on the floor. Legs cocked open, elbows balanced on upraised knees. More room for those big brass balls he seemed to be lugging around. "I, for one, would like to get this over with and salvage what's left of my day. I'll put in a good word for you with the cops before I go. Let them know that"—he gestured towards Amanda—"was an accident. And you can keep my Rolex."

Alpha barked out a short little laugh. "Man, shut the fuck up. Captain Bitchface and I might have our differences, but you're a grade-A shitbag and I'll splatter your shitbag brains all over that fancy-ass suit before I let you walk outta here."

"What about Whiskey?" asked Mike the security guard. He'd been largely silent since disarming Amanda and turning her gun over to Kilo. Olivia had almost forgotten he was there, but perhaps that was his "in" with the group—he didn't attract attention. In fact, he had retreated to his station against the wall, as if he were still surveying the bank, prepared to defend at the first sign of danger.

"What about him?" Alpha barely glanced his way.

"You only asked for four bulletproof vests. We need a fifth for Whiskey."

"Screw him, _I_ need a fifth _of_ whiskey," Victor cracked, then went back to sifting through the duffel of pilfered wallets and jewelry when no one laughed.

"Whiskey got himself caught by sitting around with his thumb up his ass, instead of being a lookout like he was supposed to." Alpha turned her head and spat on the floor, a few inches from where Victor knelt. "I told you two jackoffs not to snort that shit before a job, but you went and did it anyway. Now we're probably all going down."

Victor regarded the saliva near his hand with mild surprise. "Babe, you know I work better with some icing. I offered you a bump to get you ready . . ." He got to his feet and approached Alpha in a playful, bandy-legged gait, nudging up beside her flirtatiously. With his .357 Magnum on display, he looked like a squatty cartoon cowboy. All he needed was a piece of hay pinched between his teeth.

"I ain't gonna fry my brain with that shit," Alpha said, slapping his hand away at first. She shrugged him off a few more times, until finally giving in and letting him put an arm around her shoulders.

Though he wasn't particularly brawny, his hug engulfed her, and she disappeared against his chest. He rested his chin on top of her head, completing the picture of the young lovers caught up in a spontaneous display of affection; they could have been standing in the midway at Coney Island, or basking underneath a fireworks display, for all their concern about the goings-on around them. "They can't take us down that easy, A," he said, almost tenderly. "You're calling the shots. Long as we got their pretty little captain, you've got those guys out there by the balls. And look what I got you."

He fumbled around in his coat pocket for a moment, before producing Olivia's engagement ring. Olivia could still make out its ghost, a slender band of pale white skin, around her finger. Her hand—already numb and weirdly detached from the neural impulses that controlled its movements—looked foreign without the diamond winking up at her. She wasn't vain about jewelry, but each time she'd caught a glimpse of that ring, it had been like a confession of true love whispered sweetly in her ear. (Or, in Amanda's case, that first real "I love you," blurted out while Olivia stood naked before her, both physically and emotionally.)

Victor slid the band onto Alpha's finger. "Figured it's about time I put a ring on it." He kissed her on the forehead and flashed a winning smile. "I'll get it resized for you later."

Hand extended, Alpha studied the stone with a critical eye. But when she noticed Olivia watching, she broke into a wide grin and pulled Victor close for a rough, open-mouthed kiss. It was all a big show for Olivia's benefit, she knew that; it turned her stomach just the same. She looked away sharply, checking to make sure Kilo hadn't let up on the bandage. Stiff as a statue, eyes widened in terror, the kid was still applying pressure like his life depended on it.

"It's going to be okay, sweetie," Olivia said to Amanda, finding the blonde gazing up at her, features twisted in distress. She bent forward to graze her lips against Amanda's, for the softest of kisses. She deposited another to one waxen cheek, a third to the temple. Easing back slightly, her long, draping hair the only available privacy, she forced a sad little smile. "You're gonna go to the hospital, and I will be there just as soon as I can. I'll be right behind you. But you have to go and let them take care of you. Do that for me?"

Fresh tears pearled in the corners of Amanda's eyes, as if deep wells of sadness resided behind the pretty blue irises. She nodded, the teardrops meandering off towards her ears. "For you. Anything f-for you." She felt around until her hand found both of Olivia's, cupped beneath her chin. "D-don't be a hero. I need you. I—"

"I know," said Olivia, as the rest was cut short by a wince and a stifled moan. Dark, helpless despair tried to swallow her up, reminding her there was no comfort or relief she could provide for her fiancée—just words and another warm kiss to the forehead. Such an inadequate goodbye, and one she'd been left with far too many times herself. She pressed a final, aching kiss to Amanda's lips, then rested her brow against the paler, clammier one below. "I love you, too. So much. You fight like hell, okay? Show those doctors just how stubborn you Southern girls are."

"Damn straight." Amanda attempted a tiny, breathless laugh, but it seemed to stick in her throat. She coughed instead, and smacked her lips together a few times, swallowing thickly. "Hey baby, I'm thirsty," she mumbled, her eyelids growing heavier by the minute, until they drifted completely shut. "Can you get me some water?"

Thirst was not a good sign in a gunshot victim, Olivia vaguely recalled. But before she could process the request, or allow herself to panic over what it might mean, a knock on the glass double doors signaled the paramedics' arrival. The next several moments took on a sluggish, disjointed quality in Olivia's brain—her perception already warped by fear, fury, and her immeasurable love for the woman lying in front of her—as if someone had put the scene on slow-motion replay.

She heard Alpha order her brother to let the EMTs in, and she switched places with him when he obeyed, resuming her post at Amanda's side to keep pressure on the wound; she watched the two young medics—one of them was most likely an officer, sent in as backup—as they wheeled the stretcher in and handed off the bulletproof vests to Kilo; she yelled at the businessman, who had muttered, "Screw this," and gotten to his feet, bustling towards the exit with his briefcase in tow, like he was one of a thousand New York commuters racing for the subway, not a hostage in a bank robbery; and she cried out again, throwing herself on top of Amanda when the shooting started.

At first, it was just the powerful _kaboom!_ of Victor's revolver, but it was enough to muffle Olivia's hearing. A whiny ringing, like a  
( _flatline_ )  
radio tuning between frequencies, filled her ears. Someone shouted, "No! Stop!" and then all human voices were drowned out by the steel-throated shrieks of rapid gunfire. Those weren't amateur bullets whizzing overhead, either. ESU had opened fire, and they were shooting to kill. Fingers clasped behind her head, Olivia sheltered Amanda beneath her tented arms. She could no longer hear anything besides the muted thump of discharging ammo, a sound like softballs being launched at high velocity into a pillow—if the pillow were wrapped around her head—and that awful ringing.

The thumping stopped all at once, and Olivia peered up at a war zone. This time the assault was on her vision, a gust of smoke and dust hitting her in the face and bringing tears to her eyes. She blinked them back, only to be met with another onslaught of imagery: broken glass, blood spatter, bodies. The businessman was unquestionably dead, one side of his skull decimated by the .357; his limbs were splayed around him, as if he was still in motion, the briefcase clutched in his outswung fist. Mike the guard had left a long smear of blood and brain matter down the wall he died against. One of the EMTs—the cop perhaps, because the other was tending to him—twitched on the ground, blood squirting from his neck.

And less than three feet away, Alpha was bent over the prone figure of her little brother, shaking him by the collar of his crimson-stained coat, and screaming. Olivia didn't need the sound to understand. Kilo was dead, and Victor was being shoved face down on the bank floor by a swarm of men in black body armor, at least six automatic weapons aimed at his back. Just beyond that, Olivia caught a glimpse of the mother and young boy clinging to each other in terror, sobbing, but unharmed.

She looked down at Amanda, struck by a renewed terror of her own, to find the blonde unconscious and unresponsive. Whether she herself was screaming or sobbing, she couldn't tell as she clambered off of Amanda and felt frantically for a pulse. Her goddamn fingers were too numb to detect even a normal heartbeat.

 _Amanda? Oh God. Honey, wake up_ , Olivia said, feeling disembodied by the inability to hear her own voice. Her hands—or whomever the stiff, useless appendages above her wrists belonged to—wouldn't cooperate when she told them to pull back the blazer from Amanda's chest and check for movement. It was like being drugged again, this loss of control over her body. She tried to fight when  
( _Lewis_ )  
strong hands took her by the arms, a pair on either side, and separated her from Amanda. A swift, merciless severing. He might as well have chopped off an arm or a leg.

(Nah, not Lewis. Amputated limbs were much too mundane for him. He would rather carve out her soul. He would rather fuck with—)

It wasn't him. Several police officers and paramedics had gathered around her and Amanda, kneeling to assess their injuries and ask questions that fell on deaf ears. _I'm okay, it's not my blood_ , Olivia said, gesturing to her detective. She was probably shouting, but she didn't care. They needed to listen. _She got shot in the abdomen. Twenty minutes ago. Nine mil. There's an exit wound, so I think it went through. I put pressure on it as soon as— I said I'm fine, just take care of my fiancée._

The second the word left her mouth—though she still couldn't hear it—Olivia began to cry. She didn't notice when her wrists were freed from the zip tie, only that she was able to put one hand over her mouth without the other following. _Please don't let her die._ It may have been out loud or in her head, but either way, she repeated it like a chant or a prayer. _Please don't let her die, please don't let her die._

By the time Amanda was lifted onto a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance, Olivia could make out hints of what the other officers and paramedics were saying, if they spoke up. But it all sounded the same to her: _Please don't let her die_. She heard the siren wail into life, shrill and spectral, as the emergency vehicle lurched through the early morning traffic, rocking her on the passenger compartment bench. But it wasn't half as loud as her silent refrain: _Please don't let her die_. And when they wheeled Amanda into emergency surgery, the nurse physically prying Olivia away from the unconscious woman and telling her to stay in the waiting room—she blinked and they were gone—these were the words she whispered into the empty corridor:

"Please don't let her die."

**. . .**


	7. Chapter 6: Knockin' on Heaven's Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could say I was sorry for dumping so many feels on y'all, but I cannot tell a lie. :P I'm issuing another feels red alert for this chapter—I made myself cry rereading it. Also, a mild **TW** for child neglect. **/TW** And speaking of kids: I've played it kind of fast and loose with the Rolivia kids' ages in the Devilishverse because I didn't know specific birth dates for any of them, except Tilly, but I finally went back to the episodes and nailed down some exact (more or less) dates for Noah & Jesse for this fic... so, if the ages are a little off from past stories, please ignore that and assume their ages are correct from here on out. And I borrowed from the show's canon, but added my own twist, for Liv's "sometimes we just need a little pretty" line in this chapter. Since it was part of the Billie storyline, it didn't happen in the Devilishverse, but I really wanted to include it somehow, so... well, you'll see. I think my way can still fit with canon. :D Oh, and. I borrowed from real life a bit in this chapter. I'm assuming we all know how Mariska got the scar on her forehead. For a very long time I was hesitant to give it a backstory, since the actual story is so heartbreaking and tragic, but after some encouragement from a friend, I decided to explain how Olivia got the scar. Absolutely no disrespect or insensitivity to Mariska or her personal life is intended. Only love. <3

## CHAPTER 6: Knockin' on Heaven's Door

**. . .**

Two hours felt more like two lifetimes when you were waiting on news about a loved one. And when it spilled over into a third, it became downright intolerable. Olivia had been pacing back and forth in the waiting room, heeding none of Fin or Carisi's requests for her to sit or eat—or both—and barely noticing as the men came and went, when a doctor finally emerged from behind the automatic door to the ICU and informed her that Amanda's surgery was over. Would she follow him to one of their consultation rooms, where they could speak in private?

( _The Hole is over in C-block_ , she had said to Harris, throat growing tighter with every step they took in the wrong direction, her breath and her feet faltering the faster he led her down the basement stairs.)

She caught bits and pieces of actual English mixed in with all the medical jargon he expounded: through and through; no damage to the spinal cord, bowel or bladder; repairs needed to quell internal bleeding; recovery outlook good, but strict observation for the next several hours.

"Your wife is very lucky, Captain Benson," the doctor concluded, and Olivia hadn't bothered to correct him. She did rub absently at her bare ring finger, trying to twist an engagement ring no longer there. "If she had to get shot in the abdomen, she picked the best possible place to do it. Eighth of an inch either way, we would be looking at a much less fortunate outcome."

Halfway out the door to the closet-sized room, Olivia heard herself voice a question she hadn't known she was going to ask. "Will she still be able to conceive?"

The doctor looked momentarily surprised, but no more so than she, and he recovered far quicker. Nevertheless, her mind filled in the blanks during his brief silence— _lady, you're crazy_. Not only was she laughably beyond the years of new motherhood, her bride-to-be was forty, an age when most women were thinking about throwing in the towel on pregnancy. She couldn't ask Amanda to make a decision like that for her. Besides, they already had three children (and two dogs) under the age of eight at home.

It was probably just the shock talking. Some of it had worn off, via hours of nervous pacing, but the hand tremors had yet to abate and she still saw Amanda's bloody torso every time she closed her eyes. Blood, and the dark black nothing that waited inside the bore of Victor's revolver . . .

"Her ability to bear children shouldn't be affected," said the doctor, offering a blank smile. Courteous, but insincere. To him, she was just another fretful wife to be assuaged by his confidence and expertise. "But it will take her quite some time to fully heal, so you might want to discuss postponing your plans until she's out of the—"

"Oh, that's not going to be a problem," Olivia said hastily, ready to move on from the topic. Right then, her one and only concern was for Amanda to make it out of the goddamned woods he wanted to dredge up—she hated that awful expression, had to remind herself that the doctor didn't know about her and Amanda being terrorized in a Catskills forest almost a year ago—and to see those blue eyes twinkling back at her again.

But another hour passed, and Amanda still hadn't opened her eyes, or even so much as stirred. She looked painfully small and pale lying there in the hospital bed, surrounded by monitors and wires. Somehow, without moving a muscle, she had managed to slump down on her pillow, head tilted at an odd angle, chin resting on her chest. Her brow was crinkled, as if she were lost in deep thought. Oftentimes, she wore that very same expression while contemplating which leftover takeout to heat up for dinner.

The thought made Olivia chuckle out loud, but she immediately clamped a hand over her mouth and cast an apologetic glance at Amanda. There was no reaction, and the harder Olivia willed one to happen, the more upset she became when it didn't—the more desperate. She scooped up one of Amanda's limp hands and brought it to her heart, leaning down against the mattress.

An overwhelming urge to crawl onto the bed and curl up beside her fiancée, to hold and be held, briefly seized her. She hadn't longed for that simple comfort—of contact and safety—so intensely since childhood. She forced it away, not quite sure why it filled her with such guilt and shame.

"Wake up," she whispered against the back of Amanda's hand, then pressed her lips to the same spot for a long time. After a while, she turned the hand around and cupped the palm to her cheek. "Please, Amanda. I can't do this without you. Our babies need you. You still have to teach Noah and Jesse how to throw your famous Rocket Rollins spitball. And nobody reads Dr. Seuss to Tilly like you do. She loves all your silly voices."

Matilda wasn't the only one who enjoyed Amanda's lively storytelling. Olivia often found herself lingering in the doorway to their little girls' bedroom, grinning as she listened to the various characters the blonde conjured up—everything from sportscaster to Donald Duck—for Jesse and Matilda's entertainment. Between the wild narration, the tickle fights, and the tummy raspberries that accompanied their bedtime stories, the girls were inevitably too wound up to sleep, even after a fourth or fifth chorus of "Again, Mama, again!" (Or in the toddler's case: "'gain, Annamandy, 'gain!")

Olivia usually had to play bad cop and shuttle the little ones into their own separate beds, while the big one was relegated to the hallway, where she waited for Captain Mean Mommy to turn off the light and crack the door. Then a spirited romp of another sort ensued, Olivia scurrying for their bedroom with Amanda in hot pursuit, slender fingers hooked into witchy talons, threatening more tickle tortures. One night, they had laughed for a solid twenty minutes after Amanda blew an explosively loud and long raspberry against Olivia's bare midriff. Her stomach had ached from all the mirth.

"I need you to remind me to have fun sometimes. To smile." Olivia nuzzled her cheek further into Amanda's palm. The entire hand was flimsy and cold, and it frightened Olivia to feel none of the warmth and love that typically flowed from its touch. She hadn't realized just how fully she'd come to depend on that gentle reassurance, until now, until it might be taken away. "I need you to hold me and tell me everything's going to be okay," she said, her voice so strained and thin she almost mouthed the words. "Please, my love. You're my whole heart. Don't leave me alone like this. Please, please wake up."

The monitors continued beeping at regular intervals, and Amanda's eyes remained heavily shut. She was somewhere far out of Olivia's reach, and standing there pleading with her unconscious body wasn't going to change anything. If people in comas could really hear what was being said around them, then people under anesthesia might be able to as well—Olivia didn't want to pressure or guilt her into waking. There were already enough things that could go wrong  
( _blood clots . . . sepsis . . ._ )  
when she did stir, without rushing her along.

Carefully, Olivia laid Amanda's hand down beside her on the blanket. "Okay, sweetheart. Okay. You just rest. I can never get you out of bed before you're ready, any—" She stood up straight, a teardrop falling from her cheek onto Amanda's, after she placed a soft kiss into the sweat-matted blonde hair on the other woman's head. When she reached out to thumb away the tear, her finger suddenly froze in mid-swipe, the déjà vu so strong she was paralyzed with it.

Two years ago, she had drifted into a hospital room like this one, stood over a sleeping Amelia Cole—baring her soul and a hatred she hadn't known she possessed—and wiped a drop of her own blood off the girl's cheek. Then she'd wrapped her hands around Amelia's neck and considered ending her life. For one fleeting moment, she would have done it and not batted an eyelash. And now, medically speaking, Amanda was in the very same predicament the Cole girl had been in.

Perhaps this was comeuppance. Olivia had shown Amelia very little mercy at the end. Some secret part of herself she refused to acknowledge had been relieved when the girl died. Glad, even. ( _Just like Ellie_ , whispered the voice, and it sounded a lot like the one that used to hiss the names of dead men into her ear: _Harris, Lewis, Arliss . . ._ . Her subconscious had become a veritable purgatory for the damned.) Was Amanda the price she had to pay for that dark, hidden sin?

 _Please, God_.

"Please," she said out loud, her voice and her hands trembling. She drew back from Amanda, feeling cursed, afraid to pass it on to the person she loved more than life itself. Before she could continue her prayer, a knock on the partially closed door at the opposite wall startled her into the present. She hadn't recovered well enough to respond, but a second later, an RN in brightly colored scrubs skirted around the wide door without opening it any farther. This was a different nurse from last time. Olivia turned aside, dabbing at her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve.

"How's our patient?" asked the stout little woman as she bustled over to the bed and began checking Amanda's vitals. She barely acknowledged Olivia's presence, beyond the rhetorical greeting and an affirmative hum when she glanced up from her stethoscope, noting the tearful, anxious look directed her way.

While the nurse changed IV bags, Olivia ducked out of the room to gather herself. She'd intended to head for the restroom, splash some cold water on her face (it felt raw and bloated from all the crying she had done in the past several hours), and do a few deep breathing exercises—if she managed to locate her breath at all. But partway down a labyrinth of corridors, she came upon the hospital chapel and found her feet carrying her inside.

It was a small, beige room the size of her office, with two rows of upholstered beige chairs which served as pews. The only color came from a faux stained-glass window, fitted over a panel light in the wall and reflected in the large golden cross that stood on a marble-topped credenza, like a prominently displayed baseball trophy. There was no one else in the room, just Olivia and that gleaming cross. She regarded the symbol for a long time, keeping a wide berth. The Catholics crossed themselves in front of it, she knew that much. But she had gone fifty-two years without ascribing to religious dogma or ritual; she wouldn't patronize Him by starting now. She would be upfront and unflinchingly honest, because that's what she knew how to do. That was her truth.

"Don't take her away from me," she said, at first soft and stilted, but gaining a sturdier tone with each step she took towards the cross. "You have no right. Haven't I lost enough already? What more do you want from me?

"You know, I've been doing this for as long as I can remember . . . trying to help people, trying to make sense of all the terrible things that happen in this world of yours. Trying to make up for the way I came into it . . ."

Toe to toe with the cross, Olivia leaned both hands on the marble credenza and stared fixedly ahead at her own golden reflection. It was dappled in color from the stained glass, reminding her of the sun catchers she used to paint and hang up around the apartment as a child. Her mother had caught her playing in the colorful beams once, but instead of scolding her for being too noisy or rambunctious, Serena smiled and said, "Sometimes we need a little pretty, don't we, Livvy?"

_We sure do, Mommy. We sure do._

"And that's fine. I don't expect anything in return. There's nothing you have that I want. I only want her. Just let me keep her, okay?" Tears fell anew down Olivia's cheeks, but she hardly noticed. Her hands were fists now, pressing into the unyielding marble as if it could be kneaded beneath her knuckles like dough. "I am sorry about Amelia. I shouldn't have let myself hate her. I'm sorry I didn't protect Ellie better. And Mike. I'm sorry I can't forgive my mother. I'll stand here apologizing for every single person I've ever wronged, if I have to. But don't take my mistakes out on Amanda. Please."

That word again. That useless fucking word. She repeated it silently, over and over, resting her bowed head against the heavy cross. She lost track of how long she stood there, bargaining, pleading with a god she didn't entirely believe in; it felt like hours, but when her phone vibrated in the pocket of her jeans—spares Fin had unearthed from her locker at the precinct, along with a sweatshirt she hadn't worn in ages, to replace her bloodstained work clothes—she checked her texts and saw it had only been minutes.

The text message was from her sergeant. She read it five or six times to no avail, her brain unable to absorb the information it contained. An update of some sort about the surviving bank robbers, it seemed. But she couldn't think about them right now. None of the thoughts would be good, and if there was even the slightest chance her prayers had been heard, she didn't want to jinx them by giving hate another foothold in her heart.

Returning to the home screen on her phone, she was met by the beaming faces of her three children and both dogs. Amanda had taken the photo on a sunny weekend outing to the park, somehow managing to wrangle everyone into frame and capture the perfect shot, all eyes on the camera, clothes and hair still fairly tidy.

Not ten seconds after the picture was taken, Noah had spilled berry blue Kool-Aid down the front of his jersey, Matilda received a tongue bath from Gigi and, as a result, developed multiple cowlicks, and Jesse whipped off her headband, using it as a makeshift slingshot, blonde hair wild and streaming in the August sunlight. The little girl had been so much like Amanda in that moment, it delighted Olivia to the point of tears and laughter. She could just imagine her detective at that age, spunky and energetic and causing all sorts of trouble. Not much different from present day Amanda, really.

"What's on your mind, pretty lady?" Amanda had asked, when she returned to the picnic blanket and noticed Olivia watching thoughtfully, misty-eyed but content.

"Oh, just . . . like mother, like daughter." Olivia smiled up into the kiss Amanda dropped on her lips before settling down on the blanket. The blonde tucked herself into the V of Olivia's legs, slouching against her like she was a comfy armchair. Despite the warm day, Olivia had wrapped her in a snug embrace and nuzzled into her sweet-smelling blonde hair—wild and streaming in the August sunlight.

"Not always," Amanda replied, a bit cryptically. Maybe even a bit darkly. But after a moment, she'd turned her face up for another kiss, a lazy smile on her pretty pink lips. "If she turns out half as good as you, I'll be happy. Goes for all of 'em."

And when the kiss ended: "Let's just hope none of them get your singing voice. Or your dance moves."

Now, the memory of their laughter echoing in Olivia's ears, she clutched the phone so tightly her hand shook. She traced her thumb over Jesse's broad, mischievous grin—a carbon copy of Amanda's, when she was up to no good—and turned her back to the gold cross. The sun-catcher light played on the back of her hand, patches of color dancing on her skin. ( _Sometimes we need a little pretty._ ) She gazed up at the stained glass that cast it, noticing that it depicted Mary in flowing blue robes, holding a swaddled baby Jesus.

( _Don't we, Livvy?_ )

Olivia didn't believe in signs anymore than she believed the cross behind her would hasten her prayers up to Heaven, like a divine pneumatic tube, but she needed something to hold onto. She'd wanted it to be Amanda. Then, for one inexplicable second, as she stood at Amanda's bedside, feeling helpless and lost, she'd wished for her mother. Mothers should be there with their daughters, to offer comfort and support when everything was falling apart . . . To say goodbye, if God forbid it came to that . . .

Her fingers were already scrolling through the contacts on her cell, and selecting Beth Anne Rollins' phone number, before she could stop to consider whether or not it was a good idea. Probably not, although Amanda had called the woman on Mother's Day and her birthday, and extended an invitation to Jesse's fifth birthday party last month—Beth Anne hadn't shown, claiming the price of airline tickets was too steep, with the holidays right around the corner. The fact they were speaking at all was progress, but Amanda still mentioned her mother through gritted teeth more often than not. She would undoubtedly be pissed to wake up and find Beth Anne in her hospital room, but Olivia didn't care, as long as she woke up.

Besides, the older woman should know that her daughter was in the ICU. If Olivia had been thinking straight, she would have made the call hours ago.

"Hello?"

Struck by how much the voice on the other end of the line sounded like Amanda—the accent thicker, the tone more lilting, but a strong resemblance all the same—it took Olivia a second to answer.

"Hello?" Expectant this time, slightly terse. A voice like long, lacquered fingernails drumming against a glass of sweet tea.

"Hello—" Too late, Olivia realized she didn't know how to address her soon-to-be mother-in-law. "Mrs. Rollins" seemed too formal and a bit smug, since the woman was only eight years her senior. The few times they had spoken to each other, she'd called Amanda's mother by her first name. Best to stick with that. "Hi, Beth Anne. It's Olivia."

Silence, awkward and drawn out.

"Um, Captain Benson . . . from Manhattan SVU," Olivia offered, not quite sure why she felt so nervous. She didn't have a very good read on Beth Anne, their acquaintanceship brief and complicated by the fact that Olivia had tried to arrest the woman's youngest daughter during their last encounter—but there was nothing intimidating about her. In fact, she was a bit flighty and superficial, concerned more with appearances than facts. Olivia chalked at least some of it up to the years of abuse Beth Anne had endured, hiding behind a facade of perfect Southern womanhood. But it stung to know that Beth Anne's response to Amanda's engagement news had been to ask why her daughter couldn't just marry a nice man like Declan Murphy.

"I'm Amanda's . . . boss," she added haltingly, when there was still no response. She already regretted making this call. "Her fiancée."

"Oh, Olivia! Yes, of course." Something plastic clacked against the phone—sunglasses or a large, gaudy earring—and in the background a small yapping dog could be heard. Olivia vaguely recalled smiling at pictures of a scrawny chihuahua, or maybe a Pomeranian, while seated across from Beth Anne and her never-ending camera roll at Amanda's baby shower. "I remember you now. How are you, honey?"

Olivia tried not to be put off by the pet name—honey was relatively mild, if somewhat patronizing when used on someone who was born in the same decade as you. But if the other woman couldn't be bothered with Olivia's name, she certainly wouldn't remember a detail such as age difference. "I'm, um . . ." She licked her lips out of habit, stalling. Delivering bad news was never easy, but at least her voice didn't shake when she dealt with a victim's family. There was no hiding behind a tough cop persona now. "Not great. That's why I'm calling. I'm afraid there's been an accident—"

Whatever Beth Anne had been holding in her other hand clattered to the ground, and she gasped into the phone. The soft, genteel drawl, all high cotton and sweet sugarcane, took on a sharp edge. So, Amanda hadn't gotten her loudness from just her father. "Oh my God, is it my daughter? Is she all right?"

"She's been shot." The declaration hit Olivia like a fist to the gut. Or a bullet. She'd said the words to Fin and Carisi, but between the shock and her ringing ears, she hadn't really heard them until now. Pressing her back to the altar-like credenza, with its heavy gold cross, she sank down into a crouch, balanced on flat feet. She draped an arm across her knees, rested her forehead there, and tried to breathe. (Why was it so hard to breathe without Amanda?)

"Oh, my sweet Lord! My baby girl. Is she—"

"She's alive, but she needed surgery." Olivia squeezed her eyes shut so tight she saw sparks. The old, familiar sensation that an ice pick had been jammed into her skull took hold. For the first time in weeks, she was getting a migraine. And a real screamer, at that. She thought she might vomit. "The doctor believes she'll make a full recovery. She's under observation in ICU until they're sure she's . . . "

Not going to crump suddenly and die within minutes? Throw a clot and end up on life support? Hemorrhage to death internally from a microscopic bleed missed during surgery?

"Until she's awake." Her mouth watered profusely and she swallowed hard several times, willing it to pass. _Not here_ , _not here_.

Beth Anne was crying, her sobs reaching beyond the cell phone and filling the little chapel with a tinny, catlike mewling. Olivia held the phone away from her ear and shook her head, hot tears spilling from between closed lashes. Her insides felt feverish and loose, as if they were bobbing around in a boiling pot. "I'm so sorry," she said thinly, to no one. To the room. She opened her eyes and said it to the stained-glass mother and child on the wall.

"My baby. My sweet— How did this happen?" Beth Anne demanded, her tone doing another one-eighty from utter devastation to swift, snarling fury. She blew her nose in short bursts, the sounds of bustling movement accompanying each sniff. The faint chiming of an electronic device—computer or tablet, perhaps—was detectable a second later. "I thought you people were supposed to take care of your own? Wasn't she wearing one of those vests? Where was her partner, that . . . Fin person?"

"Sergeant Tutuola was at the precinct." Olivia raked a hand through her hair, scrubbing vigorously at the scalp with her fingernails. Making it hurt on purpose. "Amanda wasn't on duty when it happened. She and I were— we'd stopped at the bank, before heading into work."

It all seemed so pointless now, her earlier concerns about opening a joint account. Why hadn't she just gone to the damn bank when Amanda first mentioned it? If she had—if she'd been more willing to relinquish that little bit of power, the idea that yoking yourself to another person was somehow a loss of control—maybe Amanda wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed with a hole in her stomach.

"Oh." Beth Anne's anger dwindled out almost as quickly as it had flared up. She cleared her throat primly. "I forgot you two were . . . living together."

Nodding, Olivia massaged at her forehead with her fingertips. "Yes, well. There was a robbery while we were in the bank. Five people were involved. They were armed—" _One of them with my gun_ , she added to herself. "—and things got out of control."

Control. That's what it always came down to with her, wasn't it? That inability to just let go.

"Things escalated," she amended. "Amanda broke free from the man who grabbed her, and one of the others shot her when she tried to . . . help someone."

 _Yeah, me_. Olivia thought of that confused and horrified look on Amanda's face when the bullet stopped her mid-stride and she clearly didn't realize she was the one who had gotten shot. The image of Amanda crumpling to the floor, but still reaching out for her, worried about _her_ , was more than Olivia could bear. She dropped onto her backside and shook with silent, racking sobs that were too tremendous for tears. It was impossible to cry when you were already drowning.

Not so for Amanda's mother, who wept freely and ardently once again, questioning how someone could be so callous, why anyone would want to hurt her daughter, what kind of horrid place was her baby girl living in. Olivia responded as if by rote—they were the same things every mother asked her eventually, questions without answers. Sometimes fathers asked them too. Desperate and wide-eyed men, looking to her for an explanation. Even a stoic, decorated cop like Chief Dodds had broken down in her presence, at a loss as to how such a tragedy could have befallen his son.

She was how. She'd failed Mike Dodds then, and now she'd failed the most important person in her life, besides her children. If Amanda died, Olivia would have failed them too. They loved their Rolly, their Annamandy. Noah was still too shy for the transition into calling her "Mama," but Matilda already used it interchangeably with Amanda's nickname, sometimes combining the two for the rather grand and harmonic pronunciation "Mamamandy." ("I think she's just tryin' to sing 'Poker Face,'" Amanda liked to joke, though she beamed with pride each time.)

And then there was little Jesse, the gregarious and outspoken five-year-old who was still dressed in her turkey costume when she had asked casually, "Are you guys lesbians, Mama?" on the drive home from her kindergarten Thanksgiving pageant. Olivia had almost run a red light, and Amanda choked on her own stifled laughter as, for the sake of simplicity, she'd answered, "Yeah, sweet pea. What makes you ask?"

"Ainsley said so. Her mommies are lebs— lebi— that." After a pensive silence, Jesse had sat up in her car seat, craning her neck out of its ruffled red collar to see Olivia in the rearview mirror. "Aunt Livia, can I call you mommy sometimes? Ainsley calls her mommies Big Mommy and Little Mommy, but you're not that big or little. So, can I just call you mommy?"

Olivia had glanced over with uncertainty—and maybe a few tears—to find Amanda grinning at her encouragingly. The blonde reached out and squeezed Olivia's arm, mouthing, "Go for it."

"Absolutely, baby girl. You can call me mommy as much as you like."

From then on, she was the Mommy to Amanda's Mama, and the children—that bright, beautiful, perfect trio—were theirs. An entire family, and everything Olivia had ever wanted from the time she was old enough to know what family meant. So much love.

The thing about love was this: sometimes it ended. Often without preface or a warning of any kind. She had seen it happen far too many times to fool herself otherwise; she'd been the one left standing alone, heart in hand, on several of those occasions. A few, she was responsible for. She prayed to God this wasn't one of them.

"I'm sorry, Beth Anne," she said into the palm splayed across her face. She didn't want to look on that holy mother and son any longer. "I should have protected her. It all happened so quickly, and my guard was down. If I had been more aware or reacted faster . . . I'm so sorry."

For a while, there was only silence and some distant tapping, like fingernails on a keyboard. Finally, Beth Anne clucked her tongue and said, "Nonsense, dear. I'm sure you did all you could. Amanda told me how you rescued her from that awful man who escaped prison last February. We're both so grateful."

Being told she wasn't to blame, even if it wasn't true, filled Olivia with such relief and gratitude, tears welled up behind her closed eyelids and spilled hotly onto her cheeks. She rubbed absently at her forehead, fingers locating the jagged scar that extended from the hairline to just above her right eyebrow. It was hardly detectable, save for a slight indentation of flesh. Sometimes she forgot it existed, until she caught a glimpse in the mirror. Usually at bath time, which was ironic, considering that was when she first obtained it.

To hear her mother tell it, Olivia had been at fault. A three-year-old should know better than to climb out of a slippery tub, scale the bathroom counter, and stand in the sink to rummage through mother's makeup in the medicine cabinet. Though barely out of diapers, she should have had the good sense not to smear an expensive tube of lipstick all over her face and the mirror. And any child of Serena Benson's definitely should have had enough intelligence not to lose her balance, smash headfirst into the mirror, and be discovered unconscious on the bathroom floor, a daggerlike piece of glass lodged in her forehead.

According to Serena, she'd been one hundred percent sober when she ran towards the crash and screamed at the macabre sight of her little girl with a face full of blood, Chanel lipstick in Pirate, and slivers of flashing mirror. Of course she hadn't driven her three-year-old to the emergency room while intoxicated. Olivia, who had no recollection of the incident beyond the popsicles she was permitted to eat for days afterwards, could neither confirm nor deny her mother's claims. But Serena's inability to do more than glance sideways at the scar—and her defensiveness at being asked why a toddler had been left alone in the bath at all—told Olivia everything she needed to know.

"Olivia?"

"Yes. Sorry." Olivia sat up straight, as if she'd been caught napping at her desk, and swept the tears from her cheeks. "I'm here. I should be getting back to Amanda, though. In case she wakes up. I will call you the minute I have an update on her condition."

"Bless your heart," said Beth Anne, though it lacked the implied sweetness. She blew her nose again. "But I can't sit here, wringing my hands and waiting by the phone. I'm coming up there. Which hospital is it?"

Now, Olivia sat forward, pulse racing the way it did when she had a near miss on the freeway. She hadn't anticipated Beth Anne wanting to be there for her daughter, not truly. The woman was nowhere to be found the first time Amanda got shot, or when Jesse was born. Olivia didn't even know for sure if Amanda had ever told her mother about the sniper shooting. "Oh, Beth Anne, that's not necessary. It's such a long trip. She'll probably be awake by the time you get here. I'm sure she wouldn't want you to go through the trouble of—"

"There's no trouble where my children are concerned, Miss Benson. You're a mother, aren't you? Amanda said you have . . . was it two little ones?"

"Yes," Olivia said a bit anemically, though uncertain as to why. Her tongue felt like it was coated with something thick and sour-tasting. She stroked the scar on her forehead with the pad of her index finger and wished she could lie down. "Two."

"Then you understand. Nothing can keep me from my girls. I'm already booking the flight. Amanda shouldn't be alone."

Olivia sensed that the comment should make her angry, that she should put her foot down and tell Beth Anne to stay home, but she didn't have the energy for either. She was exhausted, and a small part of her—a very small part she'd deny if asked—was relieved at the thought of having someone else there to help shoulder the burden. If nothing else, Beth Anne might be willing to keep an eye on the children and dogs when Lucy or Sonny weren't available.

"She won't be," Olivia said dully, still rubbing at her scar. It had become a compulsion now, her migraine throbbing just below the puckered, zigzagged skin, keeping time with her heartbeat. ( _Your fault, your fault, your—_ ) "I'll be here."

"Oh, of course you will, sweetheart." Beth Anne gave a short, breathy laugh. It was much more artificial than Amanda's nasally little snicker, but there was something similar in its abruptness, and it tugged painfully at Olivia's heart. "I didn't mean— it's just that a girl needs her mama at a time like this. You both do. I can be there to make sure _neither_ of you are alone."

The sick feeling intensified, and for a moment it felt like longing or a deep, gnawing hunger. Though Olivia had past experience with both, she couldn't distinguish between the two. Both were an emptiness waiting to be filled, a profound and aching need.

She gave Beth Anne the name of the hospital and told her a car would be there to pick her up from the airport. Before they said their goodbyes, Olivia thanked the older woman for deciding to fly in to be with Amanda—and with her. Even if Beth Anne had no real intentions of offering support to her future daughter-in-law, it was a nice idea. A pretty idea. And Olivia needed a little pretty right then.

After she ended the call, she sat on the floor a moment longer, studying the stained-glass window and its mosaic of motherly love. "I hope you know what the fuck you're doing," she said, and without looking back at the cross, got up and returned to Amanda.

**. . .**


	8. Chapter 7: Hell Is Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note, as it appears on ff.net: I wish this site had the option to reply to reviews in the review section, rather than sending it as a PM. But know that, even if I don't reply directly, I read all the reviews and appreciate them, and I usually end up replying out loud to my computer screen. XD I'm especially enjoying the theories about what's going to happen with Beth Anne. My answer? SOON. For now, here's a little bit of lightheartedness and a different sort of guest appearance that I think y'all might like.

## CHAPTER 7: Hell Is Empty

**. . .**

Another half hour dragged by before Amanda gradually began to stir. She was always reluctant to rise in the mornings, but once awake, she usually didn't stop for the rest of the day. Not so, on this particular occasion. It took fifteen minutes for her lids to start twitching, eyes rolling around like cue balls behind her fluttering lashes, only the whites showing. For a few moments more, she had difficulty following the sound of Olivia's soft encouragement—"Right here, baby, I'm right here"—and began to drift again, with agonizingly slow blinks. Olivia's watch hadn't been returned yet, nor had her engagement ring, but she continued to glance at her left hand, trying to keep an eye on the time, trying to ground herself with familiar and comforting objects. She stole a quick look at the clock above the bed and, somewhere in that split-second, missed Amanda finally opening her eyes all the way.

To call her "awake" was a bit of an overstatement. She stared at Olivia with no real comprehension, her irises a murky shade of blue-gray, like an overcast sky. Her skin had a sickly yellow hue to it that Olivia did not like. She tried to remember how Mike and Amelia's skin looked after they had gotten shot, but all she could picture was Mike's confusion as he muddled his words and Amelia's desperation for her daughter to find a loving home.

Shaking her head to dispel the images, Olivia forced a bright, teary smile as Amanda's vision became more focused, recognition dawning on her groggy features.

"Heeey, Liv," she drawled, her voice rocky from sleep and painkillers. She sounded like she'd been out drinking all night in a smoky dive bar, shouting to be heard over the band and the other noisy drunks. Her face scrunched up in what might have been an impish grin, but also could have indicated an oncoming sneeze. "You're purdy. Purdy li'l Liv." She gazed around the room, as if there were several other visitors in attendance. There were not. "Ain't my girl purdy, y'all?"

Oh, boy.

"Hi, sweetie." Olivia chuckled in spite of herself. At least Amanda had woken in a good mood, instead of excruciating pain. That part would come later, when the drugs wore off. For now, Olivia could play along and keep the detective's mind off the seriousness of her injury and the risk it still posed. "I probably look like hell, but I'm glad it works for you. How you feeling?"

"Fat as a fiddle." Amanda furrowed her brow, concentrating deeply for a moment. Then she giggled once, making the sound, rather than displaying the emotion behind it, and said, "I mean, fit as a faddle. My belly feels weird, though. Is it still there?"

Olivia scooped up Amanda's hand as it patted around the stiff hospital blanket, inspecting the torso underneath. She chafed lightly at her fiancée's fingers, which were cold and far more delicate than she remembered. Leaning down to meet them, she kissed and warmed them against her lips. "Yeah, it's still there, love. It's going to feel weird for a while, but the doctors patched you up, and you're going to be fine. Bullet was a through and through, and the placement . . ." She kissed Amanda's fingers again, one by one. "You got really lucky."

"Lucky's my middle name, hot stuff." Amanda gave a showy but limp-wristed flourish of the hand wearing the pulse oximeter, then stage-whispered from behind it. "Actually, it's Jo. Don't tell anybody. A through 'n' through, huh? Just like last time."

Smiling a bit queasily, Olivia nodded. The detective's first gunshot wound predated Lewis, the Manhattan Mangler, and the departure of two beloved mentors; it happened before Olivia had become squad commander, before either of her children, and even before a true friendship had developed between Amanda and herself. So many significant life events had transpired since that day, when a bullet struck from above, like the thunderbolt of an angry god—so many horrific scenes had played out in front of Olivia's eyes, played out on her body, in her mind, in her soul . . . and yet, she would never shake that image of Amanda's blood, garish red against her white coat. Even from atop the building several yards away, she'd seen it smeared across the street, as if someone had dropped a paint bucket.

"Mm," she agreed vaguely. "I think you're just showing off now. Trying to upstage my illustrious medical history."

"Aw, ya caught me." Amanda scratched the side of her nose with the oximeter clipped to her index finger. She gazed at the monitor in wonder and confusion for a few seconds, then waggled it at Olivia, confusion forgotten. "You can get shot next time. Right in that cute li'l butt."

Olivia laughed outright at that one, but the sudden release brought with it a rush of emotion that left her fighting back tears. She lost almost immediately and tried to dry her cheeks without alerting Amanda, but even drugged out of her gourd on painkillers, the blonde was ever observant.

"Hey-ey-ey," Amanda said, and thrust out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. She drew Olivia's hand to her chest, weakly petting the sweatshirt sleeve that came with it. "Why you cryin', pretty lady? You know I hate to see you cry."

"I know. I'm sorry." Olivia wiped both eyes viciously with the heel of her palm and took a deep, shuddering breath to calm herself. It only succeeded in making her cry harder, and when Amanda tugged on her arm, she huddled forward willingly and wept against the blonde's shoulder.

The midnight ocean scent was still gone, but so was the metallic tang of blood. Amanda smelled of antiseptic, latex, and hospital linen. Though something about it turned Olivia's stomach, she buried her face in Amanda's hospital gown, ignoring the feeling till it passed. "I was just so afraid I would lose you," she said into the thin, papery material.

 _I'm afraid I still will,_ she added silently, ashamed to even entertain the idea. It shamed her to be falling apart on the shoulder of a woman who had just gone through a major surgery, as well. She was supposed to be better than this, now—stronger. Instead, she felt as vulnerable as a child. If she had ever felt that way as an actual child, she couldn't recall. She knew for a fact she'd never allowed herself to feel that way as an adult, with anyone other than Amanda.

"Nuh-uh." Amanda brushed back the hair that was hiding Olivia's face and nudged her chin up, pecking her lightly on the tip of the nose. That was usually Olivia's signature move, and it warmed her to the core to be on the receiving end. "Ain't goin' nowhere. You can't lose me, baby doll."

The absurd pet name—especially amusing coming from someone petrified of dolls—made Olivia crack a small, quavering smile. She permitted herself a few more moments against Amanda's shoulder, then kissed the nearby cheek and stood upright, inhaling as deeply as she could through clogged sinuses.

"Hey, ain't that a Faith Hill song?" Amanda asked, head cocked thoughtfully on her pillow.

"What, 'Baby Doll'?"

"No-ooo. Silly." Amanda sounded the way Noah did when Olivia called his favorite cartoons by the wrong title. She tried to roll her eyes, but they continued to float a bit aimlessly in their lids, like those red and white fishing bobbers tossed onto the waters. "'You Can't Lose—' Wait . . . is there one called 'Baby Doll'?"

"I haven't the slightest," Olivia said with a light laugh. She reached out to sweep Amanda's wayward bangs off her forehead and cup her gently by the cheek. "Just be glad I even know who Faith Hill is."

"Oh, that's right. You hate country music." Amanda slumped her face against Olivia's palm, nose wrinkled in disappointment. "I forgot your taste sucks."

Smiling a bit wider this time, Olivia grazed her thumb along the apple of Amanda's cheek, marveling at the fine bone structure underneath. Even a little worse for wear, the blonde was still a rare beauty. And a smartass. "Well, I picked you, so my taste can't be that bad. And if you don't give me too much lip, I promise we'll listen to all the country music you want when you get out of here."

"Yaaay!" Amanda elongated the exclamation, even as she blinked drowsily, her eyelids getting heavier by the minute. They were already closed when she smiled and said, "Okay, I'm going back to sleep now."

Olivia worried her bottom lip, watching anxiously while Amanda drifted off. She had the irrational urge to shake the blonde's shoulder and keep her awake and talking, but that would be selfish on her part. Amanda's poor little body had been through a horrendous trauma; she needed to rest, not be pestered by her unstable fiancée who was just this side of a panic attack.

Prepared to remain there, cradling Amanda's cheek and fretting over every hitch of breath, every beep from the monitors—for however long it took—Olivia stuck out her foot and tried to toe the visitor's chair close enough to sit down in. She cringed at the awful whale call its heavy wooden legs let loose sliding across the hard flooring.

"Yikes. I believe that's what our blonde friend there and her Southern brethren would describe as 'caterwaulin'," said a wry but girlish voice from somewhere near the doorway. Olivia recognized it immediately and couldn't help brightening as she turned to look, trying not to move the hand Amanda was sleeping on.

She and Amanda had met Daphne Tyler for coffee just last week, and they had regular play dates throughout the month—supposedly those were for the dogs, including Daphne's goldendoodle Hamilton, although it usually resulted in more riotous fun for the owners—but the brassy court clerk was always a welcome sight. Her humor was crude on occasion, she flirted openly and avidly with both Amanda and Olivia, and she tended towards the theatrical—and somehow, each trait made her that much more likable. She stood in the doorway, all five feet, two inches of her, resplendent in a cherry-red pantsuit, her dark hair a striking contrast. A few months ago she had sheared off her long raven locks in favor of a sleek bob. Olivia sometimes wondered if there was any correlation between the drastic change and what Daphne had endured during that nightmare trip to the Catskills. When you no longer recognized the woman in the mirror, you created a new one.

"Daph," she said, with a sigh of relief, as if she'd been waiting all along for the clerk to arrive. Indicating the hand currently occupied by Amanda's cheek, she waved Daphne in with the other. "Hi. Honey, I am so glad to see you."

For the first time in a long time, Olivia realized, she meant the sentiment. There had been few friends in her life she could truly say it to. One of them was asleep in her palm, and the other, she enveloped in a one-armed hug when the petite woman clacked over to her on dainty kitten heels. (Technically, Daphne wasn't supposed to wear any sort of heel, low or not, after the accident that had left her with what she called "daft knee"—a slight limp, named in her honor. But even daft knees couldn't dissuade her from the height boost she believed was necessary to her survival.)

Despite the bouquet of pink and purple calla lilies she carried, Daphne wrapped Olivia in a surprisingly bone-crushing hug for someone so tiny. "I came as soon as I heard," she murmured, stroking the ends of Olivia's hair down her back. "How is she? How are _you_?"

She stepped back to view Olivia at arm's length and made a sympathetic sound, momentarily mirroring the posture in front of her by cupping a hand to Olivia's cheek. "Look at you. You've been crying, poor thing. Is it that bad? Do you need to sit down?"

"I'm fine," Olivia said, about to refuse the chair Daphne wrestled closer, patting the drab upholstery for her to take a seat. After giving it a second thought, she settled on the edge of the seat and accepted the hand Daphne gave her to hold. From this angle, she had to gaze up at her friend, a disconcerting and reductive feeling she didn't like. She wanted to cry again. "I think she's okay. They did surgery to repair the damage . . . That bitch shot her in the gut, Daph. Do you have any idea how painful that is? She easily could have bled to death on the goddamn floor—"

Catching herself before she lost even further control of her emotions, Olivia cast an apologetic glance at Daphne, who looked surprised by the outburst, but not disapproving. The clerk set the flowers aside on a rollaway table next to the bed and took a seat on the arm of Olivia's chair.

"I hope they lock that asshole up for good," she said, putting her arm around Olivia's shoulders. "What the hell kind of moron robs banks in this day and age, anyway? It was a bank robbery, right? I just overheard that a cop named Rollins got shot in a bank, and I didn't stick around for the rest."

"Oh my God." Olivia clapped a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes, head shaking in disbelief at her own thoughtlessness. Word traveled fast throughout the department when a police officer was seriously wounded, and some of that inevitably spilled over into the court system, where so many of the employees worked closely alongside law enforcement. "I didn't even think to call. I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have had to hear it secondhand like that. It didn't even occur . . ."

Olivia let the sentence fade off, shaking her head again. She felt a surge of anger, not only at herself, but at her mother. Thanks to Serena Benson, who had burned every bridge—except professionally—in her entire booze-soaked life, mothered her little girl with jealousy and suspicion, then up and died at fifty-two, Olivia had never learned how to reach out to family and friends during a crisis. Until the age of sixteen, when she'd contacted Simone Bryce in a moment of sheer desperation, she didn't know it was possible to ask for help or support. Old habits died hard, just like old drunks.

( _And meth-heads_ , her mind added, inexplicably.)

"No, hey." Daphne gave Olivia's shoulders a tight squeeze and rubbed briskly at her upper arm, as if warming her. "Don't worry about that. Your fiancée just got shot by a bank robber. No one expects you to remember to call the third gay wheel. Even if she is fabulous."

Smiling thinly, Olivia brought Daphne's hand to her chest and returned the squeeze. "Absolutely."

Before the clerk could respond to the mild attempt at humor, Amanda opened her eyes and squinted at them for several silent beats. "Daphne's here," she announced in the cheerful tone she normally used on dogs, or when her meal arrived at a nice restaurant. "Hey, Liv, Daphne's here!"

"I see that, sweetheart." By the time the words were out of Olivia's mouth, Amanda was already asleep again. She had tipped her head enough to free the hand beneath it, and after stroking the blonde's pale cheek, Olivia withdrew from the pillow and made a fist in her lap. She rarely dug her fingernails into her palms anymore; it helped to tuck her thumb inside the fist, a cheat she'd picked up sometime after Lewis, when she had to keep her anxious habits in check, lest an observant colleague spot them.

One night on the couch, Cassidy had noticed the thumb-clutching and warned her not to throw a punch that way, otherwise she'd mangle her hand. He then demonstrated the proper way, molding her fingers into the correct shape, as if she hadn't received the same defense training he had at the academy. She couldn't even be mad—he only knew her as well as she let him, which wasn't much. In some ways, no one had ever truly known her, until Amanda came along. She had seen all the darkest, ugliest parts of Olivia's mind, of her heart and soul, and yet she remained.

Olivia clenched her fist, thumb across her knuckles, fingernails biting in and threatening to break skin. "There were five of them," she said, voice hollow in her own ears. "Four on the inside, one in a van outside. The security guard was part of it. He got shot when ESU intervened. I saw his brains splattered on the wall. The kid, Kilo . . . God, he was just a boy. They said he died on the scene. Caught in the crossfire. A civilian died, too—this guy in a suit. He was a belligerent jackass, but he didn't deserve that. His head—"

A glimpse at the apprehension on Daphne's face stopped Olivia from finishing the train of thought. She'd forgotten she wasn't speaking to a cop. She and Amanda both made a point of not talking shop in front of their friend, who had seen more than her share of horrors the night she stumbled upon her girlfriend's mutilated corpse, not quite a year ago. "A uni— a uniform officer posing as an EMT was critically wounded as well. He might not make it."

"But Amanda's going to be okay," Daphne said, as if convincing herself by repeating it out loud. "She got through the surgery, now she just needs to recover, right?"

 _Unless she takes a turn for the worse_ , Olivia thought, her gaze straying to the monitor that displayed Amanda's heart rate and oxygen levels. _Sometimes they do that._

"Yeah, she made it past the dangerous part," she said, and kept her eyes fixed on the bright green numbers and lines that seemed to fluctuate each time she blinked. Even the slightest change in blips made her pulse skyrocket. A dark afterimage trailed across her vision when she finally looked away from the screen—black scribbles, like a destructive child had scrubbed marker across the page, wearing the felt tip down to a dry, frizzy nub. "She's a fighter. It's going to take awhile for her to bounce back, though. And you know how much she hates to take it easy."

"Believe me, I can sympathize. All I could really do was sit around and watch the boob tube for the first couple months after they fixed me up." Daphne smoothed her palms down the middle crease of both pant legs. "I think I lost about ten IQ points, gained as many pounds, and almost went stark raving mad. But at least I got to binge all four hundred seasons of _Friends_ , at Mandy Lou's behest, so it wasn't a total loss."

Olivia chewed her bottom lip, feeling guilty that she'd forgotten just how well Daphne understood the slow and painful process of recuperating from a serious injury. She had been wrapped up in her own recovery from shoulder surgery and PTSD while the clerk was struggling with wheelchairs and crutches. And after that, she'd been wrapped up in Amanda, a state she still hadn't emerged from—and didn't want to. "I'm sorry, Daphne," she said in a small, tired voice. Suddenly, she was so exhausted, it became a struggle just to keep her eyes open. "I didn't mean to imply you didn't know what it was like—"

"Liv." Daphne took Olivia lightly by the shoulders and turned her until they faced each other. "Stop apologizing. You didn't say anything wrong. I _don't_ know what it's like to get shot in the stomach. For all I know, breaking both legs is a cakewalk compared to that. And I realize now what a horrible word choice that was, but it's already out and there's nothing I can do about it."

At first, Olivia simply blinked at the pretty brunette, but something in the solemn little face—normally so bright and animated—struck her as funny. Maybe it was the unintentional pun, or maybe she was just crashing from all the anxiety, the way a body crashed after consuming too much sugar or caffeine. She covered her mouth, snickering into her hand.

"Okay, I can't really tell if you're laughing or cry— oh, never mind, that snort answers my question." Daphne released Olivia's bouncing shoulders, folding her arms across her modest chest. "Wow, Captain B, I gotta say, your amusement at my crippling injury is kind of disturbing. Do you kick old people's canes out from under them and run away cackling, too?"

"Only if they fall down and break a hip," Olivia said, and laughed silently until water leaked from the corners of her eyes. Daphne giggled along, stifling the sound with her sleeve. When they finally got themselves under control, the last few chuckles dying out, Olivia wiped her cheeks and gave Daphne a sad smile. "She got shot because of me. I wouldn't get on my knees . . . I couldn't. The guy Victor was about to hit me. Amanda got away from the security guard, ran toward me. That's when Alpha—the girl, or woman, I guess—that's when she shot her."

"Jesus." Daphne shook her head, gazing over at Amanda. The blonde was sleeping with her mouth slightly agape, a trickle of saliva leaving a shiny trail down the side of her mouth. "You can't blame yourself for that, though," said Daphne, placing a hand on Olivia's back and stroking between her shoulder blades. "She did that because she's stupid in love with you. Knowing Mandy Lou, she'd do it again in a heartbeat, if it meant keeping you safe."

That was exactly what Olivia feared. "But I don't want her to. I can't have her risking her life for me like that. We're almost a family now. The kids need her . . . How can I do my job if I always have to worry she's going to take a bullet meant for me or— I don't know, push me out of the way and get hit by a bus, or something?"

"Well, first of all, you're getting way ahead of yourself. Call me an optimist, but I sincerely hope this is the last time either of you get shot at. And I _really_ hope you never walk out in front of a bus. Second of all, didn't you risk your life for hers, like, fifty times that night?"

"That night" had become, among the trio of women who survived it, the shorthand description for their harrowing evening in the Catskills, trying to outrun Thaddeus Orion. The fucking bastard still managed to murder three people before he went over a cliff, attempting to take Amanda with him.

"The way she tells it," Daphne went on, jabbing a finger in Amanda's direction, "you were Xena the Warrior Princess out there. You know, after you guys left me for dead. Whatever, I'm not bitter. My point is, you're both kind of crazy assholes when it comes to protecting each other—but that's how it is when you're in love with someone. Get used to it, chicky."

Olivia swiped under her nose with the cuff of her sweatshirt, sniffling. She didn't quite agree with Daphne's assessment—Amanda should put her life on the line for no one, other than their children—but she wasn't in the mood for a debate, either. "Did you just quote a Bryan Adams song at me?" she asked instead, raising an eyebrow.

"Ah yes, the Ballad of Crazy Assholes in Love. You should play it at your reception." Daphne elbowed Olivia's arm lightly and gave her a teasing wink. "So, did they arrest the creeps who didn't get shot?"

"Yeah, they're all in police custody." Olivia had seen a pair of officers steering Victor, hands cuffed behind his back and head hanging low, towards a police cruiser, before the ambulance left the scene. At the time, Alpha was presumably still inside the bank, sobbing over her dead brother, although Olivia's sergeant had since informed her that the young woman was taken to Central Booking. Alpha, or whatever her real name turned out to be, was going to spend the next several years behind bars—Olivia would make damn sure of it.

But first, she had to see Amanda through these next few hours. At least until the detective was awake and lucid. At least until the doctor could look Olivia in the eye and tell her the worst was over. "We were arguing right before we went into the bank," she said, shaking her head at the memory. It seemed as if decades had passed since that stupid tiff. Any other morning, they probably would have forgotten the disagreement five minutes after they got to work. Five minutes in the bedroom would have cleared it up entirely. "A little bit while we were inside, too. I wish I could take it back. If I'd just given her what she wanted sooner . . ."

Noticing Daphne listening with open curiosity, Olivia left it at that. She loved the younger woman dearly, but she'd never been one to share her private life—especially relationship details—even with a close friend. It had made her unpopular in school, along with her tendency toward academic pursuits, rather than social.

She'd blossomed practically overnight during her sophomore year, and suddenly had more friends than she knew what to do with—mostly boys. But she was still the "mysterious" girl, the girl who didn't engage in gossip and never invited anyone over after school. There had been a rumor she was a Russian spy gathering intel on American high school students, a rumor she'd fueled with her extensive knowledge of vodka and Russian authors (both courtesy of Serena Benson). It had only earned her more friends, but none worth keeping. And none she could confide in.

"You'll get the chance to make it up to her," Daphne said, patting Olivia's shoulder. "All couples argue. Especially women. It's called passion, and it makes the sex better. Trust me, once Amanda's outta that bed and doesn't have a gaping hole in her stomach, she's gonna be all over you. And if she's not, first call 911—" This time, Daphne rubbed Olivia's shoulder with her own and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "—then call me."

"You're hitting on me while my fiancée is in intensive care?" Olivia tsked her tongue, a playful admonishment she followed up with a half smile. "Gotta say, that's classy."

"Who's hitting on my woman?" Amanda asked, her voice as rusty as one of the steel sidewalk grates that were as plentiful in the city as pigeons and yellow cabs. Her eyes were closed, and it was a few more seconds before she remembered to open them. "I'll kick their ass."

**. . .**


	9. Chapter 8: And All the Devils Are Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. I hope you're having a good Friday. Glad you enjoyed the comic relief of the last chapter. This chapter was originally part of that one, so there's a little comedic spillover, but it's got a serious side, too. Case in point: **TW** for a scene of child abuse. **/TW** Also, this is the final chapter of part 1. New cover art coming up on Sunday.

## CHAPTER 8: And All the Devils Are Here

**. . .**

When Amanda didn't immediately go back to sleep, but kept peering at them from behind heavy lids, Olivia and Daphne stood in unison and went to her bedside. Olivia took a hand, Daphne settled for a knee, both leaning in close, like they were huddling over a crib to see the infant inside. Amanda widened her eyes and shifted her head back farther on the pillow, distancing herself enough to produce a double chin and a wary look.

"Y'all are freaking me out," she said, frowning so deeply the crinkles in her forehead doubled their usual numbers. She pouted both lips, top and bottom, the way she sometimes did in the selfies she snuck onto Olivia's phone, taking them the night before so they would be discovered during work the next morning. (Occasionally, she texted a few more, if she happened to glance into Olivia's office and find her poring over paperwork a little too intensely. Olivia didn't encourage it, but she didn't always discourage it, either.)

"Serves you right for getting shot and scaring the hell out of us," Daphne said, even as she pet the blanket on Amanda's knee like it was the fur of a newborn kitten. She had started to tear up, but unlike the other two women, who would have tried to conceal their emotions, she cried openly—and with gusto. "Don't ever do that to your fiancée again, you big jerk!"

So much for the crazy assholes in love theory. Olivia rolled her eyes for Amanda's benefit, but she pulled Daphne in to cry at her breast—the little clerk was too short to cry on her shoulder—and held Amanda's hand to the other. "Did we disturb you, love? I'm sorry. You can sleep some more if you need to."

"Nah. I ain't tired." Amanda yawned until her jaw popped. Her bangs were gradually slipping down to cover one eye, and she looked out from under them with a hazy smile. Charming as ever, even from a hospital bed. "Well, maybe just a little. But I don't wanna sleep right now. How can I, with such a pretty distraction—" She nodded at Olivia, then at Daphne. "—and this lesbian disaster?"

"Hey." Daphne suddenly surfaced, leaving behind a mascara-smeared wet spot on Olivia's sweatshirt. The brief but intense crying jag had produced a bedraggled effect, making her look as though she had just stepped in from a torrential downpour. "Actually, yeah, that's fair," she said, running a knuckle under both eyes to staunch the black tears in her clumpy bottom lashes. "And I can't even be mad, since you made a fairly decent lesbian joke. To the woman you're going to marry. My little Mandy Lou has come so far."

"And yet you still can't manage to call me by my real name." Amanda made a face, exaggerating her disdain, with a wrinkled nose and curled lip. She was still heavily under the influence, despite her sudden clarity.

(Even that worried Olivia. Didn't they say people on their deathbeds had such moments, where their minds cleared and they carried on a normal conversation, right at the end? Amelia had done that, but not Mike. He'd gone downhill right in front of her, and no amount of vigilance or prayer could have stopped it.)

"Mandy Lou is your real name. Mandy Lou Rollikins."

"Ugh, gross. How come you don't call Liv weird stuff?"

"Because she could probably squash me like a bug. And while the prospect is appealing, I think I'll stick with Liv. Captain B if I'm feeling sassy."

"Huh-uh. She needs a funny name. Tell her you need a nickname, babe."

Olivia had barely been listening. She snapped out of her morbid thoughts and tried to mentally backtrack when the other women turned expectant looks her way. They were saying something about nicknames, she thought. "Mm-hmm," she responded, putting on a tight-lipped smile.

"I told you," Amanda crowed, pointing at Daphne with a taunting gesture worthy of any schoolyard. All she needed to do was stick out her tongue, put a thumb in either ear, and waggle her other fingers back and forth to complete the illusion.

"Seriously?" Daphne swept a skeptical gaze over Olivia, sizing her up for a moment. She checked Olivia out so often, and with such unbridled appreciation of the female form—"Especially one with tits like Marilyn's, and legs like Cyd Charisse," she confessed, one rather tipsy evening—it was now a given. Fish had to swim, birds had to fly, and Daphne Tyler had to lust over women, or she'd die. "Okay, I've got it. Mandy Lou, meet Livvy Sue."

"How about no," Olivia said, before the name had time to sink in. But her detective was still quick on the draw, even while sedated.

"Livvy Sue." Amanda tried to laugh, but grunted something that sounded like "hut," and winced instead. "Oh Lord, ow." She clutched at her stomach, twisting her face up in pain and stifling a moan.

Fear radiated in Olivia's chest, turning her hot and cold at the same time. She put her hand up for silence, though Daphne had already paled and leaned in anxiously. "No more jokes, guys. Let's just take it easy and save the stand-up routines for later." She cupped Amanda's hand in both of hers, doing her best not to squeeze, though she needed desperately to hang on tight to something. "Sweetheart, are you okay?"

"Yeah." Amanda's face told a whole different story. She looked a little seasick, an impression furthered by her lolling head and quivering limbs. "Think I just need some water."

The request sent another stab of fear through Olivia. She didn't know if thirst was a bad sign after surgery for a gunshot wound, or if that only applied to the period before treatment. It had to be the latter. Thirst was a normal physical response, especially when someone had bled heavily and slept for several hours. Still, her eyes strayed to the call button on the remote that hung from a cord behind the bed. Before she made up her mind whether or not to reach for it, a knock drew all three women's attention to the open door and the man who stood there.

"Hello," said the doctor who had spoken to Olivia earlier. He acknowledged her with a nod, and went on addressing Amanda and glancing at Daphne: "I'm Dr. Crespin. I was your surgeon this morning. Just wanted to stop in and see how you're feeling? Looks like we have a full house today."

"I'll go grab us some coffee," Daphne said to Olivia, and, with her back to the doctor, pulled a face at his stiff demeanor. She patted Amanda on the leg, then ducked quietly out of the room. The clerk might not have much of a verbal filter, but she knew how to conduct herself when it mattered—and Olivia loved her for it.

"Wife can stay," the doctor said, motioning to Olivia with the folder he was holding, as he closed the door behind Daphne.

"Oh, she's not—" Amanda cut short the rest, gazing up with a soft, sweet smile that made Olivia's heart ache and her eyes tear from such profound love. When Amanda squeezed her hand and concluded, "—goin' anywhere," Olivia returned the small gesture warmly.

"Uh-huh. Good, good." Doctor Crespin opened the folder he was holding and riffled through the pages inside, his eyes barely leaving the paper as he continued. "And how would you rate your pain on a scale from one to ten? Ten being unbearable."

"Uhh, maybe . . . five?"

"Mm-hmm."

Olivia had the urge to snap her fingers until the doctor looked up from his paperwork. She didn't walk around the precinct with her nose stuck in someone's rap sheet while she talked to them; he could at least have the same courtesy for someone whose insides he'd just repaired. Especially when that someone was her fiancée.

Forcing herself to take a calming breath first, she schooled her voice and expression, and added, "She was having a lot of pain right before you came in. She tried to laugh, but grabbed her stomach like it hurt."

"Liv," Amanda scoffed. "I'm—"

"Amanda, you are not fine. You got shot. You almost—" Olivia felt the words wither on her tongue as she looked into the blonde's tired, peaked little face. She swallowed hard, unable to say anymore without her voice breaking.

"Your wife is correct, Ms. Rollins." Finally, the doctor studied Amanda, instead of her chart. He held the manila folder in front of his crotch, grasping his wrist with the opposite hand and planting his feet apart. "Your body has been through a major trauma. You need to give yourself time to heal. Which means no strenuous activity, no lifting anything heavier than this—" He brandished the chart again. "And no submersion in water."

"Okay, so no laughing, no body-slamming perps, no water aerobics. Got it." Amanda gave a half-hearted thumbs up, then let her hand drop onto the bed. "For how long?"

"Three to four weeks, and that's just the average time it takes to resume some lighter exercises. You're looking at two to three months of recovery, possibly more, depending how quickly you heal." Crespin gave a solemn nod, as if affirming his own assessment.

"Crap." Amanda sighed and flumped her head against the pillow. She cast a mournful look at Olivia. "Guess you're gonna be short staffed for a while, boss."

"You let me worry about that," Olivia said gently, stroking her palm along the length of Amanda's arm. It felt so limp and fragile, not at all like the sleek, well-toned limb that Olivia was used to having wrapped securely around her waist or draped across her shoulders. She cupped it under the elbow and brought the hand up for a kiss. She didn't have the heart to remind Amanda that they were getting married in March—if her recovery period exceeded two months, they might have to postpone the wedding. Olivia would worry about that for both of them, too.

Crespin permitted them a moment for the affectionate exchange before continuing on in his dry, emotionless manner. Olivia was able to follow along with the report more clearly, now that she needed to listen for Amanda—who was still on the dopey side—as well. When he brought out the x-rays of Amanda's torso, holding them up to the fluorescents overhead and mapping out the bullet's path of destruction, Olivia felt a little lightheaded, as if she were viewing her first crime scene photos all over again; Amanda merely stared, open-mouthed and blinking. ("I better at least get a cool scar outta this," she said.)

As he detailed the aftercare of the wound and the patient, Olivia made a mental note of supplies they would need at home—and the rules she would have to lay down for her active fiancée. She knew from experience that Amanda was a terrible patient, given to fits of boredom, dramatic groaning, and attempts to flee.

Last Halloween, the detective had thrown out her back while "wrassling" with Noah and Jesse, the latter of whom had dressed as Hulk Hogan, complete with a do-rag and blonde Fu Manchu. (Matilda, wearing the iconic red dress from _Annie_ , her bouncy copper curls needing no embellishment, squealed and cheered from the sidelines.) Amanda had been crawling on all fours, fending off Noah's whirling Phantom cape and Frannie's excited nipping, when Jesse launched herself off the couch and directly onto her mother's back. After the kids were in bed, the older two almost instantly slipping into a deep sugar coma, Olivia had gone out to the living room and discovered Amanda flat on her back on the area rug, moaning. For days afterward, she'd practically had to chase the blonde down with an ice pack and a bottle of Ibuprofen, reminding her to take it easy.

"Any questions?" Crespin had concluded his over-rehearsed spiel. He fitted the x-rays back into their folder and tapped the creased edge against the footboard of the bed, impatiently and incessantly. Olivia narrowed her eyes at the distracting noise, but he didn't seem to notice.

"When can I go home?" Amanda asked, sounding as eager as a child with the same question on the first day of school. She looked back and forth between the doctor and Olivia, almost pleading.

"Not today." Crespin didn't bother with sympathy or sugarcoating. He might have tried to crack a smile, or there might have just been a twitch in his facial muscles. Hard to say. "Let's see how you're progressing tomorrow, then we'll talk about discharging you."

Amanda heaved a weary sigh and immediately tried to cover the resultant wince.

"She asked for water a minute ago," Olivia said, keeping a watchful eye for any other signs of discomfort. She was aware her overprotective side had taken the lead, but there was no stopping it now. If this guy wanted to call her a mama bear, let him. "Is it okay to give her fluids now?"

"And food," Amanda chimed in. "Feel like I could eat a horse."

"Well, I wouldn't advise that." The doctor actually did smile this time, though it lasted no more than a few seconds. "But yes, some water should be fine. Just don't overdo it. As for food . . . keep it simple. Things that are easy to digest. You're not going to want to strain in the bathroom. Nothing spicy or greasy. And no horse meat."

After a short pause—during which, no one laughed at his joke or posed anymore questions—Crespin prepared to go. He gave one final tap on the footboard, then stopped mid-turn and pointed the folder at Amanda. "Oh, and your wife expressed some concern about your reproductive health. I assured her you should have no problem carrying out a pregnancy, once you're fully healed. Best of luck to you two."

A moment later, he was gone, leaving them in a silence so heavy it felt as oppressive as the summer heat. They both wore shocked expressions when they turned to each other, although Olivia was much more aghast. Amanda simply looked confused.

"Did he just say what I think he said?" she asked, cocking her head on the pillow. She scrunched her pale eyebrows together. "You want me to have a baby?"

"That's not what I said. He brought it up completely out of context." Olivia shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly unable to stand still. Her hands needed something to do. She placed Amanda's hand gently on the bed, smoothing it flat like a rumpled silk glove, and went for the water pitcher on the opposite side of the bed.

"He'd been talking about your organ function and everything that could be affected by the injury," she said, tearing the cellophane off of a plastic cup and filling the cup with an unsteady stream from the pitcher. She shouldn't be nervous; technically, she was telling the truth. The doctor _had_ talked about those things. Just not in conjunction with her question. "He didn't mention your reproductive system, and I— I don't know, it kind of just flew out of my mouth. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was worried about you."

Amanda accepted the cup that Olivia held out to her, but when she tried to take a drink, the water dribbled down the sides. She couldn't sit up far enough for her lips to reach the brim. Olivia scooped the cup right back up and dried Amanda's chest with a corner of the blanket. "Here, sweetie," she murmured, resting a palm behind Amanda's head, helping her lift it and take a few cautious sips. She rubbed Amanda's scalp lightly with her fingertips, encouraging her not to gulp. "Easy does it."

Those blue eyes gazing up at her over the brim of the cup, full of such trust and appreciation, were almost too much. Olivia hoped Amanda wouldn't pursue the topic any further than where she'd left it—how could she lie to someone who looked at her like that?—but when the blonde finished off the water, she gave a satisfied smack of her lips and asked, "But is that something you want? Another baby?"

Olivia placed the empty cup aside and dabbed the blanket to Amanda's dripping chin. "What I want is for this baby to lie back and get her rest," she said, easing Amanda's head onto the pillow.

"Liv."

Well, one thing the bullet hadn't affected was the detective's tenacity. Olivia leaned her elbows on the bed rail and gazed down on her fiancée with a stern but loving expression. The Mom Face. "Amanda. How about we discuss this later? Like when you haven't just been through a major abdominal surgery?" She softened the suggestion by reaching out to stroke Amanda's cheek, and felt a surge of relief when the blonde nodded, her eyelashes fluttering dreamily.

"N'kay," Amanda said, her eyes drifting closed. She nudged into Olivia's hand, reminding her vaguely of Frannie or Gigi begging for more scratches behind the ear. "But you ain't gettin' off the hook that easy. I'm gonna bring it up again later. I got ways of making you talk, lady."

With any luck, Amanda would forget the entire conversation after the drugs had worn off, but Olivia placated her with a submissive, smirking, "Yes, ma'am."

Chuckling under her breath, she continued the caresses, willing to supply all the affection Amanda desired. Her intentions were noble—she would walk through fire to put a contented smile on that pretty face—and yet she found herself waiting for just the right moment, that split-second before sleep, when Amanda's defenses would be too far down for the next revelation to upset her much. It was fighting a bit dirty, but it would still be better than dropping the bomb in Amanda's lap while she was fully awake and in pain. _At least_ _I hope so_ , Olivia thought, taking a deep, preparatory breath.

"Sweetheart?" she asked tentatively.

"Hmm?"

"I need to tell you something. I spoke to your mother a little while ago . . . "

No reaction so far, other than a slight frown that had already been there. Amanda always looked grumpy while she slept. It was terribly endearing. Olivia hated to disturb her and considered saving the rest for later, but Amanda surprised her by inquiring, "Oh yeah? What'd she have to say?"

"She, um— she was very concerned about you. I told her your surgery went well and that I'd keep her updated on your progress." Olivia fretted her lower lip, nibbling absently at a piece of skin. She couldn't tell if her lips were cracked and sore from the winter weather, or if she had been biting them this whole time; whatever the case, she tasted blood.

"That's real sweet of you, baby. I'm gonna sleep now . . . "

"Wait." Olivia placed her palm flat on Amanda's chest, circling it lightly back and forth. Her voice dropped to a near whisper, losing none of its clarity but much of its depth. Maybe Amanda wouldn't hear any of it . . . "There's more. She's on her way here. I tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted on coming. She'll be getting in later tonight. I— I told her she could stay at the apartment, at least until she's able to find a decent hotel room."

Amanda opened her eyes gradually at first, the lashes gummy and unwilling to separate. The exact moment the words and their meaning came together in her foggy brain was evident when her eyelids shot wide all at once. She stared hard at Olivia, her sleep-clogged grimace still in place. "You did what, now?"

 _Shit_.

"She was trying to figure out the best place to book an affordable room on short notice. I thought—"

"Did you suggest she stay at the apartment, or did she?" Amanda asked, struggling to sit up, but abandoning the effort just as quickly. She groaned and sank back, a miserable expression on her face, tongue working as if there were a bad taste in her mouth.

Olivia positioned a hand at both of Amanda's shoulders, barely touching, but ready to apply pressure if the detective tried to pull anymore fast moves again. "I don't know, um . . . I think I did? She already sounded so frantic, and I didn't want her to worry about having somewhere to stay, on top of everything else."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Amanda grumbled, fixing her gaze on the ceiling, instead of Olivia. She shook her head, looking like she was personally affronted by one of the speckled panels above. "I'll just bet she was positively beside herself."

"Come on, honey." Olivia heard the saccharine in her own voice and didn't much care for it, but if she had picked up any of her fiancée's Southern tricks of the trade, it was how to sweet talk her way out of a tough spot. She preferred the direct approach: sharp words, a withering glare, maybe an elbow to the face if things got really hairy. But she could do sugar and spice when it was required of her. "It won't be that bad, will it? We'll be here tonight, and she can have the apartment. This way, the kids can sleep in their own beds and—"

"My mom can sleep in ours?" Amanda fastened on a smile that was too tight and too cloying to be sincere. She aimed it at Olivia like an accusation, her eyes a crystal clear blue. Moments ago they had looked almost gray. "You know she'll go through all our shit too, right? Probably root through our underwear drawers, throw out all the dildos. Some homeless lady's gonna have a very merry Christmas."

"Amanda!" Olivia glanced over her shoulder at the open door. She doubted anyone in the hallway could have overheard the statement, nor did she particularly care if they had, but years spent commanding a squad—whose members, including the woman in the hospital bed, sometimes needed a good talking to—and having sensitive conversations with victims had taught her the importance of a closed door. Not that she hadn't already known; she'd valued her privacy, especially in public spaces, ever since she was old enough to be embarrassed by her mother's drunkenness.

"No, this is what she does, Liv." Amanda was getting louder by the minute, her tone more combative. The one or two times Olivia had seen her drunk—actually intoxicated, not just buzzed and horny—she had sounded a bit like that. Sober, she seldom backed down from an argument, but when she was loaded, she sought them out and reveled in them. Apparently heavy painkillers had a similar effect. "She puts on a big, dramatic show so you feel sorry for her and give her whatever she wants."

"It wasn't like that," Olivia said quietly, still eyeing the door. As she started towards it, intending to shut it and ease her paranoia, Amanda caught her by the wrist, holding her in place. Olivia could have slipped free with little effort—the detective barely had the strength to overpower baby Matilda just then—but she allowed Amanda to halt her retreat. She wrapped a hand around her fiancée's, fingers seeking out the engagement ring she'd replaced after the surgery: a perfect match to her own absent band. "She was genuinely upset. Trust me, my love, I know what a distraught mother sounds like. I think she really wants to be here for you."

"Yeah, well, you would think that." Amanda released Olivia's wrist, her hand going lax and dropping onto her chest. She swiped it under her nose a few times, snuffling. "You don't know her like I do."

Olivia gazed at her open palms, empty and poised as if they were still holding onto Amanda. She withdrew awkwardly and stuffed them into the pockets of her jeans. "What does that mean? I 'would think that'?"

Shrugging, Amanda made a vague gesture. It looked a bit like a dismissal. "Nothin'. You just don't get how families work, is all. You expect everyone to want a relationship with their parents like you did, because you never had it. But some families are just too fucked up for—"

A glimpse of Olivia's face stopped Amanda cold, and seemed to make her aware of what she was saying. Olivia hastened to cover up her hurt feelings behind a neutral expression; she hadn't meant to let them show, but Amanda's careless words cut to the bone, even though it was clearly the drugs talking. ( _Wasn't it?_ ) She gave a toss of her hair, shaking it out behind her, shaking out the nagging thoughts that told her Amanda was right—she didn't know what a real family was, maybe never would—and the memories of longing for a mother who loved her, a father who was a good and honorable man. Once in a while, she still ached for those things.

"Shit, Liv, I didn't mean that." Amanda clapped a hand to her forehead, brushing her bangs back roughly. She repeated the compulsive motion until her hair was plastered flat against her scalp. Then she snatched for the front of Olivia's sweatshirt, gathered a handful, and reeled her in, to sit on the edge of the bed. "Don't listen to me, my brain's all jacked up right now. I dunno what the hell I'm saying."

Summoning a weak smile, Olivia balanced her hip on the outskirts of the stiff mattress, trying not to get too close and risk jostling Amanda. "It's okay. You're probably right. I have no idea what it's like to have a relationship with my mother. I didn't even tell her the first time I was hospitalized. As an adult." She wriggled the cell phone from her back pocket and began scrolling for Beth Anne's number. "I'll see if I can catch your mom before she leaves, tell her not to come."

"No, don't do that." Amanda covered the phone with her hand, pushing it down to rest on Olivia's thigh. "Just let her come and show off what a good mama she is. I can handle her for a couple days. I doubt she'll stay much longer'n that, once she finds out she can't convince me to stop living in sin with my lesbian lover."

The nausea Olivia had staved off in the chapel began to return bit by bit, until her stomach churned with it. A memory came back to her, unbidden—her mother, blind drunk, throwing open the door to Olivia's bedroom and staggering in to stand over her bed, vodka bottle in hand, its contents shimmering in the light from the hallway.

Somehow Serena had found out that Daniel proposed. Olivia never did discover who ratted them out, although she'd always suspected his ex, another of Serena's students and a known kiss-ass. "Did you really think you could hide this from me?" were the first words out of Serena's mouth as she tried to wrench the ring off her half-asleep and confused daughter's finger. It had been a cheap, plain band—whatever a twenty-one-year-old college boy could afford in 1984—but it hurt like hell when it was ripped off and tossed into darkness.

Nothing, however, had hurt worse than Serena's next volley: "You're a stupid slut if you believe he really loves you. All he wants is that tight little slit between your legs. That's all they're ever going to want from you." Nothing. Not the slap that followed Olivia's heated reply, not being dragged out of bed so abruptly she crashed flat on her back against the floor. Not even being chased with the jagged end of the broken vodka bottle. Sometimes the right words were the most harmful weapon in a mother's arsenal.

"I'm sorry, I never should have called her," Olivia said, head lowered and eyes on her lap as she spoke to Amanda. She fidgeted with her phone, sanding it back and forth against her thigh. She concentrated on its warmth, willing away the fullness in her throat and the prickling behind her eyes. "I didn't know what else to do. I thought . . . I thought she should be here in case—"

Olivia finally glanced up when Amanda took hold of her knee and gave it a small shake. "I told you I'm not going anywhere," said the blonde, and walked her hands up Olivia's arm, pulling her in for a hug. It was more a grasping of shoulders and nuzzling together of cheeks, but it quenched a need for physical comfort that Olivia hadn't even known she craved. She wept silently then, watering Amanda's pale locks with her tears.

"You remember that?" she asked, maintaining a steady tone, despite the hitch in her chest. She had cried in front of one too many people today. Time to get her act together.

'"Course I do. My mind is like a steel trap." Amanda stroked the back of Olivia's head several times, then leaned aside to get a look at her face. She didn't seem surprised to find it glistening wet and drawn with sadness. Her own eyes were dewy, brows knitted in sympathy, as she brushed some of the tears from Olivia's cheeks with her thumb. "And don't say 'rusty and illegal in thirty-seven states,' or I'll get up out of this bed and whoop your behind. No matter how sexy it is."

Olivia smiled at the playful threat—classic Amanda, full of bluster and sexual innuendo, even while hospitalized—but she couldn't gather the humor to respond in kind. She just wanted to be close to Amanda, to hear her heart beating and feel the steady rise and fall of her chest. She wanted to forget about bad mothers, lost engagement rings, and her irresistible urge to mend broken families, at least for a little while. "I love you," she said softly, and pressed a tender kiss to Amanda's lips. They were drier and more cracked than her own, but it was still the sweetest kiss in the world, as far as Olivia was concerned. "I promise I'll get you out of here as soon as they tell me it's safe. And anyone who tries to give you a hard time—about anything—will have to go through me first."

"They wouldn't dare." Amanda smiled into a second and third light peck on the mouth, her palm cupped around Olivia's cheek. "My fearless captain," she added, with deep affection in her tone and sparkling in her lovely blue eyes.

"They didn't have— Oh, whoops. Sorry to interrupt," said a chipper, although slightly hollowed out, voice. It was Daphne, nursing the plastic lid of a disposable coffee cup, as she entered the room like she did everything else—at top speed and chattering. She bunched up her shoulders and gave an apologetic wince, pointing back to the doorway with the hand holding a second Styrofoam cup. "Want me to come back when you two are done sucking face?"

Olivia and Amanda rolled their eyes in unison.

"You are a true romantic, Daph," Olivia said, sitting up and gesturing for the drink. She remained at Amanda's side, sipping the coffee sans creamer—that was the item Daphne couldn't find in the cafeteria—and listening to the other women trade wisecracks and stories about their day (Amanda emerged the clear victor). Olivia barely took her eyes off the detective for the rest of the evening. She was still on watch when Beth Anne arrived a little after midnight.

**. . .**


	10. Chapter 9: Speak of the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's in the mood for part 2? Less action in this section, but lawd hammercy, tensions are high. This chapter and the next were originally one, so if the ending seems a little abrupt, that's why. Hope you like the new cover art. I totally ganked the design from a movie poster. Props to you if you figure out which one. **TW** References to domestic violence **/TW** Okay. Ready or not, here comes Mama!

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[ ](https://imgur.com/bej2sGU)

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#  PART II: The Lesser of Two

**. . .**

**CHAPTER 9** : Speak of the Devil

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Amanda Rollins was officially in hell. Not only did it feel as though her guts were being fed through a meat grinder while someone simultaneously poured battery acid over top of them, but she was also stuck in the back seat with her mother, who commented every five seconds on Olivia's driving ("My goodness, dear, I bet you've never lost a high-speed chase") and gave a little shriek whenever another car came within three inches of either bumper. She squealed again as Olivia cut into the next lane, avoiding a pothole that would have been murder on Amanda's broiling abdomen.

"Good Lord, Mama." Amanda groaned, letting her head thump against the headrest. She caught Olivia's eye in the rearview mirror when the captain glanced back with concern and growing tension.

So far, Amanda's fiancée and her mother were getting along well enough—mainly because Olivia was allowing the older woman to steamroll her at every turn—but now that the doctors and nurses were no longer there to dote in front of, the real Beth Anne was making her debut. Judgmental, high-strung, and a master at the art of backhanded compliments. "Relax. Liv's been driving here her whole life," Amanda went on, offering an encouraging smile up-front. "She can handle herself in rush hour traffic. Right, babe?"

"Sorry, Mrs— Beth Anne." Olivia briefly returned the smile over her shoulder, but her tight grip on the steering wheel belied her attempt to be easygoing. Beth Anne was getting under her skin, no doubt about it. Give it another day or two, and Olivia would be ready to tie cinder blocks to the other woman's feet and drop her in the Hudson. (Or maybe that was just Amanda's wishful thinking.) "I'm sure the city can seem a bit . . . frenetic, especially when you're used to a small town. But this is typical Manhattan travel. Maybe even a little slow for this time of day."

"I've been to Atlanta, honey. I know how big city traffic works." Though Beth Anne's voice lilted with good humor, Amanda could swear she detected a note of condescension. Her mother kept calling Olivia by pet names, as if the captain was precious and not much older than Jesse. The tone was irksome enough, but many of the name choices bothered Amanda even more: they were nicknames she used for her fiancée. Nobody but Amanda got to call Olivia "darlin'" and get away with it.

"We're not all backward hicks down in Loganville," Beth Anne continued, a superficial smile pasted on her lips. It didn't quite reach the moss-green eyes, which were keen and watchful of every move Olivia made. "Some of us are even educated. Like my Mandy."

"Of course," Olivia said quickly, making a wide and flustered gesture. She lost all awareness of what her hands were doing when she was nervous. Usually, Amanda found it endearing, but she disliked that her mother, of all people, could shake Olivia's confidence, something few others were capable of. "I didn't mean to imply—"

"Dammit, Mama, you know that's not what she meant." Amanda lolled her head to one side for a better look at her mother, but even that much was painful. She cringed and tried to right herself, then gave up when a fire ignited in her abdomen. Starfished and whining, she lay there in complete misery. "Quit tryna act all highfalutin."

Beth Anne clucked her tongue and reached over to help Amanda sit up. She heaved a rather extravagant sigh, dropping her hands into her lap when Amanda brushed them aside. "Language, honey. And is that any way to speak to your mama? Olivia will think I didn't raise you right."

Even her mother's pronunciation of Olivia's name—the "O" elongated, the consonants harder than necessary—pissed Amanda off. She knew her frustration was a bit irrational and shouldn't be taken out on Beth Anne, who had traveled several hundred miles to be at her side, but at the moment, she didn't care. Her belly felt like it was full of bubbling hot tar, and she'd slept restlessly, jerking awake every few minutes, convinced she had heard gunfire. Olivia, usually the lighter sleeper in their bed, was so exhausted she had fallen asleep cockeyed in a chair, her long legs draped over the side, head leaning on the backrest. It was the first sleep she had gotten during their two night stay at the hospital. Amanda almost woke her once or twice, wanting the comfort of her strong, reassuring presence and gentle touch, but she opted to tough it out instead. _Rub some dirt on it, Mandy_. Her father's motto, and now hers. It was a shitty alternative to having Olivia's arms around her.

That morning, she woke to her mother flitting around the hospital room, elated to announce Amanda was being released. By afternoon, Beth Anne practically dragged her out of bed and carried her to the car, shooing away all attempts at assistance from Olivia and the nurse pushing the wheelchair. Now, here they were, cozy in the back seat, Beth Anne fussing over her, when she would have preferred the attention to come from her fiancée.

"Liv knows all about how you raised me," she muttered under her breath, immediately wishing she could take it back. She didn't have the energy for where this was headed. Fortunately, her mother never heard anything she didn't want to hear.

"What's that, sugar? You'll have to speak up a little louder for your old mama." Beth Anne cupped a hand behind her ear, inclining it towards Amanda. "These ears of mine aren't as young as they used to be."

Amanda gritted her teeth, summoning every ounce of self-control she possessed—already a meager amount before you took into consideration the painkillers and what felt like the most excruciating period cramps of all time—to keep from biting her mother's head off. Quite possibly in the literal sense. There was more to Beth Anne's seemingly innocuous comment than she was letting on. She never spoke about her age unless required, and she certainly never referred to herself as old. Amanda had the sneaking suspicion it was her mother's underhanded way of calling attention to the eight-year age gap between herself and Olivia.

But there was the alternative explanation: Beth Anne had been yanked around by her ear and had her head slammed into hard surfaces so many times over the years, first by her father and then by her husband, it was possible she did suffer from permanent hearing loss. The thought made Amanda's blood surge, an unbearable heat creeping up her neck, and for a moment she felt lightheaded enough to pass out.

"Amanda . . . " Olivia issued the warning gently, shaking her head at the blonde reflection in the rearview mirror. _Don't._

Being told not to do something she'd already decided not to do only irritated Amanda more. Even if it was Olivia doing the telling.

 _Especially_ if it was Olivia doing the telling.

She should be defending herself—and Amanda—not pussyfooting around Beth Anne. For all the captain's experience with liars and manipulators, sometimes she just couldn't see past the facade of victim. Particularly if the so-called victim was a woman. Amanda loved her fiancée's compassion and willingness to believe even the imperfect vics, but not everyone deserved it. Some people got what they asked for. Got it, stayed in it, and made their kids go through hell with them.

"What?" Amanda snapped, glaring into the mirror. She was met with total silence from the front seat and the back, and she cursed inwardly that she had lost her temper with Olivia in her mother's presence. One of Beth Anne's favorite old saws to bring out during an argument was that Amanda acted "just like her daddy" when she got angry. If she started lashing out at her soon-to-be wife for no reason, that would be one more box she could check off in the Like Father, Like Daughter category.

Softening her tone and her features, she caught Olivia's eye and asked again, levelly: "What?"

"Nothing." Olivia turned her attention to the road and didn't look back anymore.

"Don't let that sass mouth of hers upset you, darlin'." Beth Anne reached forward to give Olivia's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Her hand remained there longer than necessary, fingers spread apart and curled just enough that her acrylic nails looked like talons. "She's always been a big ol' meany after she has another one of her scrapes. Gets it from her daddy."

 _Bingo_.

"Why, there was one time . . . " Beth Anne finally released Olivia's shoulder, folded both hands in her lap, and gathered a deep breath. She was clearly gearing up for a long-winded tale of what a challenge it had been raising such a fractious young daughter as Mandy Rollins. "She was about six years old, and she broke her arm—"

Actually, Amanda was nine when that happened, and it had been Kim who pushed her off the top of the slide; afterward, their mother refused to believe that the five-year-old had anything to do with her older sister's accident. Before Amanda could point out those conveniently overlooked details, Olivia spoke up in a soft but steady voice.

"I've experienced my share of scrapes alongside Amanda, Mrs. Rollins. She's never been anything but supportive and compassionate throughout each one. I wouldn't even be here without her." Olivia flipped on the blinker as she coasted into the turning lane outside the parking garage of their building. She hesitated for a moment, parting her lips and closing them several times, then added: "If not for your daughter, my children wouldn't have a mother. That's the kind of person she is. Not a cruel one."

Heart swelling with gratitude and a love so immense it was overwhelming, Amanda quickly gazed down at her lap and fought to keep her emotions in check. She hadn't felt such a strong connection to another human being—like a divine tether, a pure, unbreakable thread—since the first time she'd held her newborn daughter in her arms. Olivia must have felt it too, because she reached back to grasp Amanda's knee in that comforting way she had, both gentle and fierce. Amanda rested her hand on top of Olivia's, ignoring a conspicuous sidelong glance by her mother.

"Well, of course," said Beth Anne, with a frivolous little gesture and the fetching smile of a former Georgia beauty queen. In typical Southern fashion, the genial was code for something much more profane. "I've been her mama for forty years and counting, Captain Benson. I know what a remarkable woman I raised."

"We're here," Olivia announced as she pulled into the garage, taking the curves a bit faster than usual and dodging into the nearest parking space at a speed that even had Amanda gripping the armrest. She switched off the ignition with the same abruptness and was already out of the car, slamming the door behind her, as Beth Anne undid her seatbelt.

"Temper, temper." Beth Anne tsked once, but held her tongue when the rear hatch opened with a hydraulic hiss and thumped shut a moment later. She was still gathering her purse and working each finger into her leather Isotoner gloves by the time Olivia appeared outside Amanda's window.

Opening the door with one hand, Olivia offered the arm that wasn't loaded down with Amanda's overnight bag and their personal effects, which were stuffed into a plastic bag the size of a pillowcase. They would probably never get the blood out of any of it, but it seemed a shame to throw away two expensive winter coats in the middle of December.

"Now you just wait right there and let your mama help you inside, honeybun." Beth Anne, suddenly spry as a jackrabbit, hurried down from the back seat and made her way over to Amanda's side of the vehicle.

"I'm sorry," Amanda mouthed before her mother arrived.

"Me too." Olivia caressed Amanda's cheek with the back of her hand, a tinge of sadness in her smile. She stepped aside to let Beth Anne do most of the assisting as Amanda eased from the vehicle, and she fell in behind them, bringing up the rear as they headed for the elevator.

Every step hurt. Beth Anne was patient and didn't rush her, but Amanda's insides felt abnormally heavy and detached, as if they were rending apart with each movement. Now she knew how the magician's assistant must feel getting sawed in half. She wanted Olivia—not her mother—to help her walk to their apartment, and found herself intentionally lagging a step behind Beth Anne, waiting for her fiancée's approach. When Olivia took the hint and slipped an arm around her waist, Amanda leaned into the support, savoring the warmth at her side. Beth Anne kept a firm grip on the opposite hand, her arm tucked under Amanda's.

The elevator ride was awkward and silent, the one inside the apartment building no better. But the moment Olivia unlocked the front door to their residence, all quiet ceased amidst a gauntlet of wagging tails, panting tongues, and prancing paws. Frannie and Gigi were beside themselves with excitement to have both mommies home after a two-day absence and a revolving door of sitters, including Carisi, Lucy, and Beth Anne. They almost knocked Olivia down with their ecstatic greeting, but the ever intuitive Gigi kept all four paws on the ground when she neared Amanda. Frannie was a whole other matter.

"Down, Fran—" Olivia dropped her armload of bags where she stood and caught the dog by the collar just as she lunged towards Amanda, practically hopping on her hind legs like a kangaroo. "Frannie Mae, sit. I said—"

"Sit, girl," said Amanda. A bit weaker than the commands she normally gave, but Frannie had learned that when First Mommy interceded on behalf of Second Mommy, she'd better behave. The pit bull dropped her rear to the floor and shimmied from head to foot, struggling to obey while straining at the collar Olivia held onto. When Amanda and Olivia combined households, Frannie had taken well to having another owner. But she would always be a mama's girl, and often forgot that she had to follow the captain's instructions as well.

"Good girl." Olivia patted the dog's head and walked her over to Amanda for some ear scratches and gentle noogies. Gigi was more of a lady, patiently waiting her turn and accepting a few strokes on the muzzle. She greeted Beth Anne before trotting off, satisfied with the interaction. Frannie tried to sniff each of the women from top to bottom and had to be sent on her way with a light swat on the rump when she became enamored of something in Beth Anne's purse.

"Couch or bed?" Olivia asked, sliding the fallen bags out of the way with her foot and resuming her place at Amanda's side.

"The children will be home from school soon, won't they?" Beth Anne gazed around the apartment as if she were seeing it for the first time, though she'd slept there for the past two nights. She took in the matching sofa and chair set—deep, sloped seating with plush cushions and an abundance of throw pillows—in the slate blue shade Amanda and Olivia had agreed was the best choice for a home with three kids, two dogs, and countless spills; she eyed the toys strewn about the play area constructed for Matilda by her brother and sister, who spent almost as much time in the bright, buzzing Fisher-Price kingdom as the toddler did; and she pursed her lips while she scrutinized everything else, from television size (a modest forty-eight inches) to portraits on the wall (equal space devoted to each child, although a professional photo of the entire family had yet to be attained) to the lopsided handmade key dish by the door (Jesse was showing an aptitude for math and science, rather than the arts).

No doubt, Beth Anne had plenty to say about each detail her critical eye fell upon—the term "lived in" would likely be used, a patronizing smile affixed—but for once, she held her tongue. At least about that.

"You come on to bed now, so they don't disturb you when they get in," she said, starting off in that direction with Amanda's hand still in hers.

Well, that decided it. "I'll take the couch," Amanda said flatly, refusing to budge for her mother. No easy feat when she felt like a strong breeze could knock her down, but she stood her ground and made Beth Anne backtrack a few steps. "I've been in bed for two and a half days. Just need to sit a spell."

"Oh, don't be so stubborn. You know how little ones are, especially your Jesse. She has your temperament—"

Amanda's blood was beginning to boil, and this time it wasn't from the heat that expanded in her stomach like the inside of a potbelly stove. " _Our_ kids are just fine, Mama," she said sharply, shaking free of her mother's grip. It stirred up the hot coals in her gut, and she might have fallen over without Olivia bolstering her from the other side, but now she was determined to make it to the couch without Beth Anne's help. "They're well-behaved. All of them. They're not going to bust the door down and gut-punch me."

"Oh, for Heaven sakes, I didn't mean they would do something like that." Beth Anne disappeared behind Amanda for a moment, returning with the bags Olivia had dropped. She took them over to the dining room table and plopped them onto a chair, along with her purse. "But I'm sure they're bursting with energy, being cooped up in an apartment all the time. And everyone knows that growing up without a father figure can have a negative impact on a child's behavior. For boys and girls."

Though Olivia didn't react beyond a slightly faltering step, Amanda sensed the tension building next to her. The captain's gait became heavier, her stride longer, as if she were stalking through the precinct with a perp in hand, instead of walking her fiancée to the couch. With a bit more muscle, she could have scooped Amanda up and carried her the last few feet.

Beth Anne's audacity had almost the opposite effect on Amanda. In one fell swoop, her mother had disregarded her home, her ability to raise children, and her choice of partner. There was comfort in consistency, and Beth Anne had just proven every one of Amanda's arguments that the woman never changed. How could Amanda be angry when she got exactly what she'd expected?

Easy. Like this:

"You were none too worried about the impact a father could have while I was growin' up." Amanda grimaced as Olivia eased her onto the couch, strong hands intuitively providing support wherever it was needed. She kept a hand at Amanda's back, wedging pillows into place behind her and urging her to settle against them. Amanda expected a discouraging look when their eyes met, but Olivia was unreadable. Walls up. "Sometimes they do more damage than good. Mamas, too. Anyway, Liv never had a daddy. She grew up in the city, living in apartments. And she's the strongest, most well-adjusted woman I know."

From the corner of her eye, Amanda thought she saw Olivia's head shake, but she had fixed her mother with a pointed look—one that made it clear exactly which women she was comparing with Olivia—and refused to break it. In the end, Beth Anne gave an injured little sniff and glanced away first, folding her arms over her chest.

"Well, far be it from me to question anything that worked out so wonderfully for Captain Benson," she said, putting on a cheerful air that just barely concealed her resentment. "She is a paragon of modern womanhood and maternal wisdom."

Nobody could take a compliment that was also one hundred percent accurate and twist it into an insult quite like Beth Anne Rollins did. She had the ability to tear a person to shreds without the smile ever leaving her lips. Some people were so blinded by her charm, they thanked her for the remarks, mistaking them for sincerity. Olivia was not one of those people, but she made no move to stand up for herself, either. There was a fragility and reticence in her behavior towards Beth Anne—if Amanda didn't know any better, she'd call it intimidation—that was disconcerting.

"You know what, Mama?" Amanda felt herself about to cross a line, and no amount of calming pats from Olivia or biting down on her own tongue would stop her. "Why don't you make yourself useful? Go fix us up something to eat, maybe put on some tea for Olivia. You're good at that."

"Amanda." Olivia spoke the name so softly it was almost inaudible. Her hand never ceased its soothing rhythm at the nape of Amanda's neck, and she only bowed her head slightly, eyes closed for the briefest moment, yet the reprimand came across loud and clear.

Or perhaps that was just Amanda's guilt talking. Her mother looked so deeply wounded, Amanda might as well have pulled out a knife and cut her with it. She had seen that expression on Beth Anne's face during many an argument with Dean Rollins, who had no shortage of cruel and dismissive comments saved up for his chirpy blonde wife. Most of the derogatory slang for women that Amanda knew, she learned during those frightful late night screaming matches. It didn't matter how hard you covered your ears or how far back in the closet you hid, "fucking dumbass cunt" was not a phrase that could easily be blocked from the hearing or the mind.

"Sorry, Mama. I didn't mean that," Amanda sighed, suddenly too weak and weary to hold her head up. She had never wanted to sleep so much in all her life. Leaning against Olivia, she sank into the ready embrace that awaited her and went as limp as the damned Raggedy Ann doll Matilda loved to cart around everywhere. "I'm just real tired. Painkillers must be kickin' in. Think I will go lie down in bed, after all."

Beth Anne's features softened in concern, and absent that big fake smile, it was the most sincere she had looked since arriving two nights ago. "Of course, honey," she said, hurrying forward with her hands outstretched to help. "You just let me take care of—"

"Liv can do it." Amanda snuggled even further into the captain's arms, grateful to feel them tighten around her. Not since she was a lovesick teenager, crushing on Brad Pitt in _Legends of the Fall_ and Leonardo DiCaprio in _Romeo + Juliet_ , had she wished to be scooped up and whisked away someplace quiet and safe, by someone strong and passionate. Normally it would embarrass her to yearn for such a thing now, but she was just exhausted enough, her body and emotions just raw enough, that she didn't care. If Olivia could have carried her back to the bedroom, Amanda would have let her.

As it was, Olivia helped her to stand, doing most of the work and holding her upright when they were both on their feet. It was the closest they would probably get to one sweeping the other off the ground, what with Olivia's bum left arm and Amanda's core strength literally being shot to hell. They were sturdy girls, anyway—athletic and tall (despite the captain's short jokes), a couple of real bruisers. Ballbusters is what her daddy would call them. And ballbusters didn't get carried around like helpless cinematic damsels.

Still, when Olivia ducked under her arm, shouldering most of her weight from the waist up, Amanda didn't object. Beth Anne hung back awkwardly, hands poised to assist, but heeding Amanda's request to stay put. "I suppose I'll whip us up a late lunch then, after all," she said, trailing behind them towards the kitchen. "What are you girls hungry for?"

"I ain't." Amanda hobbled along beside Olivia, relying on her more than was technically necessary. She should be grateful she even had the use of her legs at all, as close as the bullet came to her spine. If it had veered to the right or left—up or down—even a fraction of an inch, she might have been in a wheelchair for the rest of her life, depending on Olivia to tie her shoes and wipe her ass. Or change her colostomy bag.

She shuddered at the thought, and Olivia's arms fitted more snugly about her. "You should try to eat a little something, sweetie," said the captain, a worried glance aimed sidelong at Amanda. "You've hardly touched anything in two days. You'll waste away."

Apparently Olivia had different ideas about Amanda's stoutness. Amanda started to disagree, then recalled how dogged she had been about persuading Olivia to eat during that rough patch earlier in the year. She'd practically monitored every bite the captain put into her mouth—or didn't.

It had bordered on obsessive for a while, till one day Amanda caught herself placing internal bets on how many slices of pizza she could sneak onto her girlfriend's plate unnoticed. (She lost, only succeeding at three out of four attempts—five was the goal—and the crusts remained from the last two.) Though truth be told, she hadn't backed off entirely until Olivia started complaining that all her pants were too damn tight. Now, she didn't pay too much attention to what the captain was eating, unless she wanted a bite. And for the past couple days, she hadn't been able to stomach much more than that at one time without feeling uncomfortably full. Bullets must be high in fiber.

She almost laughed at the unspoken wisecrack, but it would have hurt too much and she was too tired to explain herself. "Nah, I'm not that dainty," she said, giving Olivia's shoulders a squeeze. "S'pose I'll have a taste of whatever Mama makes, though. Think we got the fixins for chicken and dumplings?"

"I . . . have no idea. What are the 'fixins'?" Olivia, who never cooked anything with more than three ingredients, looked truly baffled.

"Never mind. Hey, Mama, how 'bout your homemade chicken 'n' dumplings?" Amanda called as they turned down the hall, on their way to the bedroom. "There's a bodega on the corner if you need something."

"Sure, honey," Beth Anne sang out brightly, "I'll make some up for you right quick!"

The main reason Amanda had suggested her mother's culinary specialty—besides the fact that it was indeed delicious and one of her favorite meals—was because it took a while to prepare. Beth Anne went all out, boiling a whole chicken, pulling it off the bone by hand, and making dumplings from scratch. She'd be busy for at least a couple of hours. And now, Amanda had a hankering for those chicken and dumplings . . .

"Should I go with her to the bodega?" Olivia asked when they were out of earshot, or what would be considered such a distance for most people. But most people weren't Beth Anne Rollins, who had a penchant for listening behind doors, around corners, over landlines when her teenage daughters were gabbing about boys. It was a habit by then, picked up from eavesdropping on her husband's phone calls, to make sure he wasn't cheating (he often was), and later used to discover what Amanda and Kim were hiding from her (which was everything).

"Huh-uh. She'll be fine." Amanda lowered her voice, though they were entering the bedroom, Olivia pausing to close the door behind them. "Woman's got the nose of a bloodhound. Always caught me whenever I tried to sneak a smoke. She could probably find her way around the city on smell alone. Plus, you need to stay here and take care of your invalid fiancée."

While Olivia was still in mid chuckle, Amanda caught the lapels of her peacoat—a last minute replacement for the warmer, puffier coat now covered in rust-colored blood stains—and tugged her into an abrupt kiss.

Too abrupt, ow. She slackened her grip on the scratchy wool and eased up on Olivia's lips until they just barely grazed hers. For a moment they stood breathing lightly into each other's mouths, the gentle exchange their most intimate contact since that Sunday morning encounter days earlier. It would be a while before Amanda was up for anything that strenuous again. She sighed and pecked a tiny little kiss to Olivia's bottom lip.

"Some invalid," Olivia murmured, resting her forehead against Amanda's, but applying no pressure. She cradled Amanda's face in her hands, holding it with such warm tenderness that falling asleep there seemed like a plausible option. "I still can't believe you were a smoker. Dirty girl. Better never let me catch you at it."

Amanda flashed a cocky smile, or what would have been, if her lips weren't protruding slightly from having her cheeks squished in Olivia's hands. She was tempted by the "dirty girl" comment, but let it slide for now. Even her libido—which could be overactive, to say the least—wasn't up for the challenge of post-op relations. Not to mention, she sometimes still craved a cigarette on rare occasions. Usually the stressful ones.

"I seem to recall partaking of a puff or two with you," she said as Olivia sat her down on the edge of the bed. "Or was that some other hot captain who shotgunned weed into my mouth last Valentine's Day?"

Olivia flushed a pretty shade of pink and knelt to untie Amanda's shoelaces. She took Amanda gingerly by the ankle, lifting either foot and slipping off her Nikes. "That was different," she said, placing the sneakers aside in a neat pair by the nightstand. Hands braced against her knees, she looked up with a sly grin. "I was only a lieutenant then."

**. . .**


	11. Chapter 10: This Could Be Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, I'll try to make this quick, since I'm posting on the later side tonight. Sorry, been dealing with a headache all day. For those of you who guessed _The Hand That Rocks the Cradle_ as the movie poster that inspired my part 2 cover art—ding ding, you are correct! :D This is another chapter that was split, so again, if the ending seems abrupt, that's why. Also, keep in mind that this takes place before Olivia met Amanda's father in "Devil Went Down to Georgia." And there's a part that contradicts something from "SPF 38D" in this chapter, so I'm gonna bump that one down the timeline and say it's set after this fic. Happy reading.

## CHAPTER 10: This Could Be Heaven

**. . .**

" _That was different. I was only a lieutenant then."_

That made Amanda laugh, which in turn made her hiss and clutch at her stomach. She put up a palm to allay Olivia's concern, but the captain was already on her feet, rubbing Amanda's back and humming words of comfort.

"Come on, baby, let's get your coat off so you can relax better." Olivia eased Amanda's arms out of her lap and began folding the quilted green parka back from her shoulders.

Long and constrictive, the coat had been left unzipped so it wouldn't irritate Amanda's wound, but it was also too bulky to comfortably lie down in. She felt a bit childish sitting there while her fiancée undressed her, guiding her arms out of the sleeves as if they were posable doll limbs. At the same time, it felt good to be taken care of, so when Olivia looped an arm under Amanda's, lifting her up enough to slide the parka aside, she leaned willingly into the embrace.

"You want fresh PJs or no?" Olivia asked, a hand cupped to the back of Amanda's head, as if she were lowering a baby onto the bed, rather than a full grown adult. She nuzzled into Amanda's hair, though it hadn't been washed since the morning of the robbery and probably smelled like the inside of a Mets pitcher's cap on game day.

"Don't, darlin'," Amanda said, no real conviction in her voice. She made no effort to free herself, either. Olivia had left the hospital to shower only once, the previous afternoon, but she still carried the fruity scent of her body wash and a subtler, creamier hint of lotion. She seldom bothered with perfume, which she considered fussy and a distraction—although, truthfully, she just didn't need it. Amanda breathed her in hungrily, glad to forget the hospital smell. "I stink."

"No, you don't." Olivia kissed her on the forehead, then bent closer to take a whiff. Crinkling her nose, she said, "Okay, yeah, you kinda do. But it's not that bad. You're still my little pretty."

"That's a new one," Amanda said, a faint smile crossing her lips. She tugged at Olivia's peacoat, urging her to take it off as well. "At least you didn't call me your little stinky."

Slipping out of the thick woolen jacket, Olivia tossed it onto the storage bench at the foot of the bed and sat down beside Amanda. "Thought about it. But I don't need stinky. I just needed a little pretty to get me through these past few ugly days, and I couldn't seem to find any. Then it occurred to me . . . " She reached up to stroke Amanda's cheek, pure love shining from her expressive brown eyes. "It's you."

Amanda rested her hand against the back of Olivia's, kissing the thumb that came up to trace the outline of her lips. "You trying to make me cry," she asked, a telling quiver in her voice, "or just make me feel like an even bigger jackass for the way I acted in the car?"

"You weren't the one being a jackass in the car." Olivia ducked down to look Amanda in the eye when her gaze wavered, brimming with tears. "You didn't do anything wrong, okay? She shouldn't have said that about your father. You're nothing like that man."

It was a sweet sentiment, a valiant attempt to uproot the seeds of self-doubt planted long ago by Beth Anne's careless words—and it was also wrong. Olivia had never met Dean Rollins, her impression of him based solely on what she knew from Amanda. And while Amanda never sugarcoated any of it—the wife-beating, the explosive temper, the run-ins with the law—she hadn't told the full story, either. Not the part about being a daddy's girl who sometimes ganged up with Dean to torment her mother and younger sister; not about the thrill of gambling alongside the man, celebrating his victories and never feeling prouder than when he cheered her on; and definitely not about the many traits they shared: the surly moods and jealousy, the impatience and knack for deceit, the mean streak and love of arguing. She had his eyes too.

Truth was, Amanda and her father were a lot alike. It was her best kept secret, and one she hoped Olivia would never discover. But a small part of her—that inner Mean Dean she hid so well—felt a hint of satisfaction when Olivia nudged her chin up, looking deeply repentant.

"I really am sorry. I didn't know she would be this . . . " Olivia sighed and twitched up her shoulder in a half shrug. "Trying. I wish I hadn't called her. It seems so ridiculous now. But at the time, I wasn't sure—" Her voice had grown thinner with each explanation, until it finally broke, and she along with it.

Covering her face with one hand, she began to cry. "Oh my God, Amanda, I was so afraid you were going to die. I kept thinking about Mike and Amelia and how they both seemed okay, then all of the sudden they just weren't. If that had happened to you . . . if I'd lost you like that . . ."

Any smugness Amanda felt about being right regarding her mother evaporated the moment tears filled Olivia's eyes. She hadn't even made the connection between her injury and its similarity to those sustained by Mike Dodds and Amelia Cole, both deceased.

In the hospital, she'd been aware Olivia was worried about her, but she had assumed it was the normal concern of a fiancée for her intended; maybe a bit more intense, considering the fiancée was Captain Benson, who loved as fiercely as she fought for justice. But now it made sense: that persistent fear in her eyes, those anxious refusals to leave Amanda's bedside. She had been in the room when two people—both of them young, healthy, and strong—suddenly deteriorated after surviving a gutshot and surgery. She'd had a damn good reason to be frightened for Amanda.

And here sat Amanda, wanting to hear her apologize for doing what any decent fiancée would do—what, as a boss, she was _supposed_ to do—and notify the family. _At least you've got a family to notify_ , Amanda thought, shaking her head. What was it she had said to Olivia the other day? Something about the captain not knowing how families worked because she never had one?

 _God, you really are a piece of shit_ , Amanda told herself. To Olivia, whose hand she lowered, revealing a pretty tear-stained face, and whose head she guided onto her shoulder, she said, "Hush, now. That didn't happen. I'm right here with you, and there's no place else I'd rather be."

She toyed with the ends of Olivia's hair, disliking the unpleasant pull in her abdomen when she reached higher. It felt like a shirt sleeve about to be ripped off at the seam. "Well . . ." she added lightly, nestling a kiss into the soft brown locks that always held traces of something lush and bittersweet underneath, that distinctive Liv scent, "Maybe on a beach somewhere, sipping mai tais with my girl. You in a sexy little two-piece. Me in sackcloth and ashes. Mourning the abs I'll pro'ly never see again."

Olivia made a sound that was part scoff, part tearful hitch. She sat back, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her palms and tossing the hair from her shoulders, as if shaking the emotions off with it. "We're even then," she said, sniffling but smiling vaguely. "I haven't worn a sexy bikini since at least 2003. No one wants to see my nearly fifty-three-year-old ass parading around half naked on the beach."

"Uhh, I beg to differ." Amanda let her gaze roam appreciatively over the captain's curvy figure, though it was clad in yoga pants and a shapeless Baja hoodie. Even then, she could conjure up a detailed image of the body underneath, its casual strength and lavish femininity and all that glorious, golden skin.

Only a few days earlier, she had sat on this very bed, practically drooling into her own lap as she watched Olivia perform a slow and seductive striptease. No one was more surprised than Amanda that her fiancée was feeling amorous after a long, boring day at CompStat, but when Olivia began peeling off her captain's uniform piece by piece, discarding with a flourish each crisply pressed article of clothing and the gleaming insignia that told of her power, her authority—well, who was Amanda to argue?

She had leaned back on her palms against the mattress, legs cocked apart, probably resembling a skeevy guy in a strip joint—the kind who licked dollar bills and slapped them to girls' asses—but too entranced to care, as she watched the trappings of leadership fall away. Captain Benson soon emerged as just Olivia (if there could be such a thing), who wore a lacy, jewel-toned bra and panties set in deep turquoise. The color reminded Amanda of a mermaid's tail, a thought she wouldn't dare admit to, but one that made her smile broadly, along with the delicate beaded chain that draped across the bust like a necklace. An even tinier version hung from the waistband, right under the little bow in the middle. How Amanda had longed to reach out and pull those enticing silver strands . . . . Moments later, she hadn't needed to.

"Take my word for it, babe," she said now, patting Olivia on the thigh. "Most guys would kill to see that. A whole lotta ladyfolk too."

Olivia cocked an eyebrow at the term, a smirk slowly surfacing. "I have always been rather popular with the . . . ladyfolk," she said wryly, enunciating the last part.

Jokes aside, there was some truth to that. Amanda noticed plenty of men watching her fiancée with a little too much interest on the regular, but it was actually the women who bothered her the most. Gay and straight, they naturally gravitated toward Olivia, forever wanting something from her: warmth, strength, kindness, attention, or that unmistakable fire she carried within like a torch. And it wasn't just the victims. There was a waitress at their favorite diner who inevitably found a reason to stand at their table chatting, a hand on Olivia's shoulder, her laugh far too loud; a mom whose kid went to the same daycare as Matilda had come right out and asked for Olivia's phone number; and the gym was so chock full of badge bunnies, Amanda had teased that she should cancel the captain's membership.

And then there was Cabot. A ghost, but a tall, beautiful (educated, refined, wealthy) one whom Olivia once had feelings for, no matter how much she might deny it. In the past year, Amanda had grown to dislike the former attorney—maybe even hate her a little. Most of the arguments Amanda had with Olivia outside of work either revolved around their mothers or priss-faced Alexandra Cabot. The late night phone calls, early morning texts, and novel-length emails had tapered off for a while after Olivia hung up on the woman months ago—Amanda still didn't know what had been said during that conversation, though she suspected it was about her—but now, Alex was calling again. Then those damned earrings showed up.

_Something blue._

It riled Amanda to no end that the blonde not only had the gall to send her fiancée— _her_ "dearest Liv"—expensive jewelry, a gift typically reserved for romantic partners, but that Alex expected Olivia to wear the earrings on her wedding day. And Olivia seemed to be considering it. If there even was a wedding, with one bride missing a ring and the other clutching her gut and walking like Igor the lab assistant.

"Are you okay?" Olivia asked, breaking into Amanda's darkening thoughts. She touched a wrist to Amanda's forehead, her own brow furrowing. "I mean, besides the obvious. You don't look well."

Amanda suppressed the urge to duck away from having her temperature tested. Her mother practically had to sit on her to get a thermometer in her mouth—and sometimes other places—when she was a kid. Of course, Beth Anne's solution to a childhood fever was plunking her kid into an ice bath, butt-ass naked. Amanda had learned very young how to power through illness to avoid her mother's remedies. And she hated being coddled.

At the same time, she wanted nothing more than to lie her head down in Olivia's lap and be cared for by someone who did it so well. All those other women were really onto something, clamoring for Olivia's attention and validation.

All those other women could go to hell. Olivia was hers, and right now, Amanda needed her comfort—maybe even a little bit of babying. (It was possible the painkillers had lowered her inhibitions somewhat, but then, that was the beauty of the drugs). "I'm just tired. Feel like I been rode hard and put up wet." She gazed longingly at the pillows against the headboard. "Maybe I'll sleep some more, after all. Will you stay with me until it's time to pick up the kids?"

"Of course I will." Olivia had already started turning down the bed, and she smoothed the fitted sheet with her palm, indicating the side she usually slept on. Farthest from the door and more obstacles impeding the path to it—but also the cozier, more secure side—should she take to wandering during a night terror. They were rare occurrences these days, though not unheard of. "Come on, let's get you comfortable. Was it yea or nay to fresh pajamas?"

Amanda glanced down at her gray on gray ensemble of baggy sweats and a Braves hoodie with a tomahawk through the big red A logo. She plucked at one of her pant legs and made a half-hearted gesture. It had taken nearly five minutes and all her energy just to get those on, and that was with Olivia's help; the thought of changing again, less than two hours later, already had her worn out. "It's nah. These are good 'nuff." Groaning with each stiff and stilted movement, she crawled into the space that had been prepared for her and sank in like she was settling into a steamy hot tub. "I wanna be little spoon, okay?"

"Okay, love," Olivia said indulgently, stepping out of her slip-on sneakers beside the bed. She eased in next to Amanda, who found she couldn't turn completely onto her side and ended up propped at an odd angle against Olivia, and pulled the covers over them. Then she slid an arm under Amanda's head, the other resting lightly across her shoulders.

It was more of a big spoon/awkward spatula situation, but it was the most relaxed Amanda had felt in almost three days. Didn't hurt that Olivia always gave off a steady, gentle warmth, even in cold weather. Amanda liked to tease her about being the human equivalent of a Snuggie, but she—with her perpetually frosty extremities—relished cozying up to the subtle and inviting heat of that embrace. Sometimes in the middle of the night, she woke up sweltering and had to untangle herself from Olivia's long arms and legs. Right now, however, she just wanted them around her.

"Is this good? I'm not hurting you, am I?" Olivia asked, and though her lips were close enough to Amanda's ear to make her shiver, she sounded far away.

Another illusion of the drugs, Amanda realized, as she felt them dragging her down towards sleep, heavy as a stone in darkened waters. "S'good," she murmured, trying and failing to keep her drooping eyelids apart. "Jus' hold me, baby . . . "

A thought occurred to her then, and she turned her face towards Olivia without opening her eyes. "You say something 'bout having another kid, or did I imagine that?"

If Olivia responded, Amanda didn't hear; she was asleep before the answer came.

* * *

_Bullet dodged._

The second the thought registered in Olivia's mind, she regretted it. Tacky, given the circumstances of the past few days. She sent an apologetic look over her shoulder at Amanda's sleeping form—she was barely visible, snuggled down deep in the covers where Olivia had left her, just a blonde head peeking out from under the comforter—and closed the bedroom door gently behind her. She pressed her palm to the door for a moment, gathered a few deep breaths, then headed for the kitchen and the sound of clattering utensils.

After two attempts at subtly clearing her throat went unnoticed, she reached past the kitchen archway where she stood (it was a Tuscan-style affair of exposed brick and wood, and a major selling point of the apartment, at least for Olivia) and knocked on the open refrigerator door. Beth Anne, who was bent over with her head inside the fridge, uttered a short, startled cry and shot up straight. "Land sakes, honey," said the woman, a hand on her chest, "you nearly scared the dickens out of me."

"I'm sorry." Olivia ignored the urge to point out that she'd been standing there for a full minute, watching her future mother-in-law root through the contents of her fridge, tsking at all the leftover takeout. She wanted to like Beth Anne, or at least to get along with her for Amanda and Jesse's sake. Being a smartass would only cause more trouble. "I just wanted to ask if you needed help with anything?"

"Not unless you know how to bone a chicken," Beth Anne said in a singsong voice that implied she knew full well Olivia had no idea how to do such a thing. She had seen the Styrofoam containers and tin foil swans. Those weren't the food storage practices of someone who frequently handled raw meat.

"I . . . " Olivia meant to say that, no, she had never boned a chicken, but she could certainly learn. As she glanced around the kitchen though, taking in the pots, pans, and utensils—some of which she didn't even recall owning—and the myriad ingredients spread out on the counter, she felt wholly inadequate.

There were a handful of dishes she knew how to throw together with moderate success, most from a box with instructions on the back. Her forays into the culinary arts had all been too short-lived to develop any real skill. She tried to learn for Calvin Arliss' sake, but more often than not she'd given in to his requests to order pizza instead of suffering through whatever mediocre meal she placed under his wrinkled nose. It seemed like the least she could do, after all that he'd been through. (Maybe if she had provided more stability and discipline . . . ) When he was taken away, she hadn't the heart to keep practicing. Nothing made her feel more alone than preparing a dinner for one.

By the time Noah came along, she had already given up the illusion of ever being a great cook, and settled for being a tolerable one. Her grilled cheese wasn't half bad, her mac and cheese even better—only an occasional powdery clump to spoil the effect—and she knew how to make a hamburger and fries he liked almost as much as from a restaurant. Dear little Jesse would eat just about anything either mommy set in front of her, as long as it wasn't mushy. It was Olivia's youngest child, Matilda, who proved to be the biggest challenge; easygoing in all other aspects, the toddler often refused to eat what the rest of her family was having. Her tastes ran on the bland side, requiring Olivia, at fifty-two years old, to teach herself how to make a decent bowl of oatmeal. ("GUH-ROSS," Jesse announced, whenever she saw the Quaker Oats canister sitting out.)

Neither the Quaker Oats man nor Olivia's old standby Velveeta were anywhere in sight at the moment. Just a bunch of soup cans, seasonings, flour, and something simmering in a pot on the stove—presumably the chicken she didn't know how to bone.

"I'm afraid not," she said, a bit more apologetic than intended. She had plenty of good reasons for her shortcomings in the kitchen, namely lack of time, but it still felt a little like failure. Especially with that knowing look on Beth Anne's face. "I can chop a mean celery and onion, though."

Beth Anne glanced at the vegetables sitting on the paddle-shaped cutting board beside the stovetop, then waved the suggestion away like she was swatting a fly. "Those won't take me but a minute. No sense in you getting that onion smell all over your pretty hands right before you pick up my grandbaby." She eyed the hands in question for a moment, giving a small twitter of laughter and another flitting gesture. "I suppose I should say grand _babies_ now, shouldn't I? That will take some getting used to."

"I'm sure Noah and Tilly would like that very much," Olivia said, and meant it. Even if Beth Anne disapproved of her, she hoped the older woman would accept her children. Noah had already lost one grandmother, and Matilda's were both dead before she ever entered the world; Olivia had never met her own grandmother, who was always just a face in the photo albums her mother didn't like her to look at.

One night when she was eighteen years old, she had caught her mother in a rare talkative mood—Serena went from tipsy to belligerent drunk in the wink of an eye, but there was sometimes a moment in between when she didn't seem to loathe Olivia—and it was during that conversation she learned the truth: Serena's parents had disowned her when she'd "gotten herself pregnant" out of wedlock. She never spoke to them again, and several years later, when her bastard child was in the third grade and concocting fictional grandparents (and a fictional father) for a family tree assignment, Serena found out they had died in a car accident. That was the year she almost burned the apartment down with Olivia asleep in the next room. A drunken accident, of course. What else could it have been?

Olivia desperately wanted better for her children than faded photos in an album and made-up names crayoned onto construction paper leaves. (She'd kept the one reading "Hawkeye Benson," the _M*A*S*H_ -inspired pseudonym for her fake father, until that day she overheard her mother on the phone. "How could I love someone that was conceived by a monster?" Later, Olivia had gone to her room and locked the door, dug the green paper leaf—worn soft by age—from inside her pocket-sized diary with the tiny padlock, and ripped it to pieces.)

Yes, her children deserved better. And if she had to kiss a little ass to get it for them, then so be it. "Carisi tells me they're quite fond of you," she said to Beth Anne, affixing her warmest smile. She might be a Yank, but she knew how to turn on the charm when it counted. "I can't thank you enough for looking after them these last couple days. It took a load off my mind—and Amanda's. I wish you were visiting under happier circumstances, but I'm so glad they're getting a chance to know their Grandma Rollins."

"Oh." Beth Anne fluffed the back of her blonde coiffure. It was an affected gesture, denoting flattery. Still, it was better than the thinly veiled disdain she had shown so far. "Oh, well aren't you sweet. But there's no need to thank me. I'm just doing what any good grandmama would do. For all three of her grandbabies. Five, if we count the furry ones."

They exchanged genuine smiles then, and a moment later Olivia found herself holding a large mixing bowl filled with flour and being instructed on how to incorporate the right amount of ice water to form dough.

**. . .**


	12. Chapter 11: Or This Could Be Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW** References to child abuse/neglect and spousal abuse, and brief gore. **/TW**

## CHAPTER 11: Or This Could Be Hell

**. . .**

"Not too much, now," Beth Anne said patiently, nodding approval as she leaned over the bowl, watching Olivia drizzle. "I like dumplins that stick to your ribs. Not those puny dough pellets they serve at the Cracker Barrel. Might as well be eatin' soggy flapjacks."

"Cracker Barrel?" Olivia was only half listening as she concentrated on wetting the flour from center to sides, per Beth Anne's directions. When it looked sufficiently moistened—a nod from Beth Anne confirmed it—she put the water pitcher aside and began kneading the dough.

"Oh my Lord," Beth Anne said, scandalized. She lay a hand in the crook of Olivia's elbow, stilling its momentum forward. "You mean to tell me you've never been to Cracker Barrel before? Never even heard of one?"

Olivia gave an uncertain shrug, trying not to look as sheepish as she felt. She must have said the wrong thing, because the older woman was staring at her in utter disbelief. "I know Crate & Barrel. Is it anything like that?" she asked, lifting her flour-encrusted hands in a helpless gesture. She was so far out of her element right now, she might as well be performing brain surgery.

"You poor child, no." Beth Anne shook her head as if she had just witnessed a sad but inevitable tragedy on the evening news. Widespread famine, or a town leveled by natural disaster. (But no, it was just that disaster in the kitchen, Captain Olivia Benson.)

"Well . . . " A thoughtful expression stole over Beth Anne's face. She tapped at her chin with a long French-tipped fingernail. "Now that you mention it, there is a gift store attached and it does carry home decor and all sorts of cute little— Form it into a ball, that's right . . . Nothing as fancy as your Crate & Barrel, I'm sure. But it puts you in mind of an old general store, and the restaurant serves—it doesn't have to be perfect, honey—serves Southern food that tastes almost home cooked. Except for the dumplings."

It was time to spread out the dough, and Olivia stood back to watch Beth Anne prepare the countertop and rolling pin. She had made enough Christmas cookies with Noah to be familiar with that part, but she let the expert handle it nonetheless. "That sounds nice," she said, glancing away when Beth Anne rubbed flour up and down the length of the rolling pin. "We don't have much in the way of Southern home cooking around here, unfortunately. I'm not as versed in it as I should be. Although, there is a new Cajun restaurant I've been meaning to try in the Village."

Beth Anne made a noise of disgust that sounded almost identical to the one Amanda made when saddled with extra paperwork. She brandished the powdery rolling pin at Olivia. "That's Creole slop, sugar, not Southern. All those little crawdaddies. No ma'am, you can keep that jambalaya far away from me. I've got kin down in Louisiana, and they're a bunch of swampwater bigots who barely speak English and wrestle alligators."

What to say to that, Olivia hadn't the slightest idea. She wasn't even sure Beth Anne was speaking English, either—her light, honeyed drawl had become downright viscous and she pronounced the words as "Loosiana" and "wrassle." So, that's where Amanda had picked it up. It was cuter when the detective said it, but Olivia couldn't help smiling to herself as she rolled out the dough. "Amanda didn't mention she has relatives in Louisiana," she said, struggling to make a dent in the stiff mixture. It was roughly the size and density of a rock.

"That's because little Miss Amanda has always been ashamed of where she came from." Beth Anne rubbed her hands together briskly over the sink, dusting off the flour. She rinsed the rest away with the sprayer and gave one of her tinkling silver bell laughs. "At least on my side of the family. She used to be proud to carry her daddy's name, but ever since she joined the police force and got it into her head that she's some sort of victim, she hardly speaks to him. Her childhood wasn't as bad as all that, for heaven's sake."

It was all Olivia could do to hold her tongue as she worked at the dough, flattening it from the center outward around the entire circumference (she had watched enough reality TV baking competitions with Amanda to know that was the proper way to do it, not just rolling the pin back and forth). Once again she reminded herself that she was trying hard to like Beth Anne, and that—whether or not the woman admitted it—she was a victim too. As if confirming the thought, Beth Anne added, "My daddy made Dean Rollins seem as tame as an ol' puddy tat, but you don't see me fussing about it. You can press harder, dear, it won't bite you."

Olivia had almost forgotten the task at hand, her mind wandering back to the times Amanda had actually spoken about her father. They were few and far between, and always sparing on the details. He was a "mean son of a bitch" who had regularly beaten "the holy hell" out of Beth Anne and left it up to his young daughters to "put her back together." The rest Olivia gleaned from passing comments and slips of the tongue: Dean was a factory worker, heavy smoker, hard drinker—and hard hitter. Something of a philanderer as well. And though Amanda had never stated it explicitly, Olivia got the sense that Mean Dean (a nickname bestowed on him by the friends who had stood by one night and watched as he nearly beat a man to death in a bar fight) was also a compulsive gambler.

She didn't press her fiancée for anything beyond that. She knew better than anyone just how much shame and embarrassment the sins of the father (or mother) visited on the child. Growing up, she had guarded the secret of her mother's alcoholism as though it were her own, and would have continued doing so indefinitely, if the NYPD didn't require a full disclosure of family and medical history upon admission. If she had gotten caught lying about why ACS had paid a visit to her home monthly for a period of almost two years back in the eighties, or about her mother's drunk driving arrests and various booze-related misdemeanors—or why mother and daughter were both frequent fliers in the Mount Sinai ER—she never would have made it past beat cop.

Then, a couple months into SVU and in a moment of sheer naïveté, she'd revealed to her new boss Donald Cragen that her mother was also a recovering (ha!) alcoholic. At the time, she truly believed it, just like she believed the insight into her personal life would help establish camaraderie with the captain. Just like she believed sharing the same information with her partner Elliot Stabler, who seemed so invested in her life outside the squad room, couldn't hurt. Somewhere along the way, it had become public knowledge, as did the reason for her interest in a specific cold case from a 1967 campus rape at Columbia University.

Eventually those little pieces you shared of yourself built up, until you had given away more than you intended. Too much to ever get it back.

Olivia couldn't fault Amanda for avoiding that trap. But she also hoped that one day the detective would lower those walls a bit, at least for her.

It certainly wasn't going to happen with Beth Anne Rollins around.

"We all process trauma differently," Olivia said, leaning on the rolling pin with both hands. She wheeled it back and forth across the widening circle of dough, heedless of the "correct" method she had been using. "What's right for you isn't necessarily right for Amanda. And growing up in an abusive household, even if you're not the one being physically harmed— it has a devastating effect. On everyone involved. I've seen it a lot over the years, Beth Anne. Amanda's choice to distance herself from that is a smart one. She needs your love and support, not your judgment."

"You needn't beat it to death, dear," said Beth Anne, the humor in her tone a bit too calculated, too sly.

"Excuse me?" Olivia stopped and stared, almost dropping the wooden rolling pin. For a moment, its width and the heft in her hands felt like another object . . . a metal bar wrenched from a bed frame . . . . She squeezed it until her knuckles whitened and the feeling passed. (But not the smell. For as long as she lived, she would never forget the smells.)

"The dough. It'll be flat enough to make noodles if you keep that up." Beth Anne butted in beside Olivia, plucking the rolling pin from her now limp grasp. She patted the Frisbee-sized circle of dough, declaring they should let it sit for a few minutes, then adding mildly, "You don't have much of a feel for the kitchen, do you? Didn't your mama ever teach you to cook?"

Olivia watched her future mother-in-law pop the tab on a cream of celery soup can and empty the contents into the simmering pot on the stove. Just like the cans of SpaghettiOs that had been her main food source from age six—when Serena finally realized her daughter would stop asking incessantly for meals if she was allowed to use the stove and make them herself—to age ten. By then, they owned a microwave and Olivia had stopped burning her hands and arms  
( _good practice for Lewis_ )  
every time she wanted to eat; but after witnessing her mother fellating a strange man one night in their living room, she had thrown up that evening's SpaghettiOs dinner and never regained her taste for them. She'd adhered to a diet of cereal, Pop-Tarts, and PB&J during her mother's binges in the subsequent years, right up to college. At least it had left her with a low tolerance for junk food.

"My mother taught me a lot of things, but cooking was not one of them," Olivia said, her eyes glazing over as she gazed at the steam that drifted up from the pot. "She was a—" _Bitter, falling-down drunk who could barely look at me, let alone take the time to teach me how to cook._ "—very busy woman. And a staunch feminist. She believed women should aspire to more than wearing an apron and playing the angel in the house."

That last part was true. Thanks to her mother, Olivia had been able to quote Mary Wollstonecraft, Virginia Woolf, Gloria Steinem, bell hooks, and a variety of other outspoken women from a young age—and did so often, much to Serena's delight. It was the surest way to get attention. Indeed, Olivia's mother had taught her many things.

"I don't suppose she would have much use for a silly old housewife like me, then." Beth Anne ladled a spoonful of brothy liquid from inside the pot, scrutinizing as she poured it back in. She shook her head and reached for the bright yellow container of cornstarch nestled among the other baking supplies. "Be a dear and fetch me the tablespoon, won't you, Olivia? If you can manage to find it."

The dig was so artfully offhand, Olivia thought she might have misheard at first. It could have been an innocent remark about the jumbled utensils on the countertop, but more than likely—and with the sudden appearance of her given name—it was exactly what she suspected: payback. Either way, she was the one who had stuck her damn foot in her damn big mouth. "I'm sorry, Beth Anne. I didn't mean to insinuate there's no value in being a housewife," she said, poking through the plastic and Teflon until she located the tablespoon on a ring of measuring scoops. She let the others drop to the bottom of the ring and offered it over to the woman. "As long as it's your choice and it's what fulfills you, then it's worthwhile. For all my mother's talk of freedom and independence, she let . . . other things control her."

After all, Serena Benson had been married as much to the bottle as to any man. And like an abusive spouse, it promised her love, happiness, security, then it beat her down, stripped away her pride, left her empty and alone. In the end, it had killed her, rather than see her set free. What was worse—being servant to a tyrannical man or a tyrannical substance?

In the middle of mixing two scoops cornstarch into a measuring cup of water, Beth Anne had paused to look at Olivia. Sensing herself being watched intently, Olivia plucked the bread knife from a notch in the wooden block beside the fridge. She pointed the blade at the dough round and turned a questioning glance to Beth Anne, who nodded.

"Where is your mama now?" Beth Anne finally asked as Olivia began slicing the dough into chunky wedges. She really had no idea what she was doing, but the older woman made no comment, so Olivia continued on with a bit more confidence and speed. The sooner she finished the dumplings, the sooner she could leave to pick up her children—and get the hell out of this kitchen.

"She died . . . " A thought occurred to Olivia then, and she brought the knife down a little too fast, narrowly missing her fingers. She tucked them into a fist on the cutting board. "Twenty years ago, as of the tenth of this month."

She hadn't visited her mother's grave since last Mother's Day—an experience that left her angry, grieving, and in no rush to go back—and before that, two or three years worth of the holiday had slipped by unnoticed. But she recalled studying the date of death last time, fretting because she'd reached the same age at which Serena had died, and because it coincided with the twentieth anniversary of her passing. It had seemed like a terrible omen at the time. Now, the year was almost up, her early-February birthday right around the corner. A hell of a year, no doubt, but she was still here. And so was Amanda.

"Oh my," Beth Anne gasped, a hand going to her chest in shock. It was difficult to tell with her, but she seemed sincere when she placed the other hand on Olivia's arm, adding: "You lost her young. And so close to Christmas. Oh honey, I'm sorry to hear that."

There was never a good way to respond to such condolences, especially twenty years after the fact. Olivia did her best, giving a brief nod and a tight smile. She had been every bit as awkward and stiff at the funeral. "Thank you. It was a long time ago."

"Still. That's your mama. You never get over a thing like that. I miss my daddy every day, and I had him till my fifties." Beth Anne absently stroked Olivia's forearm a few times, her eyes going misty. "Were you close with yours? Your mama, I mean."

"No. We—" Olivia searched for something more to add, something to soften the blunt reply, but she came up empty-handed. It was the plain and simple truth.

Once she had reached adulthood and moved out on her own, she'd hoped Serena would stop thinking of her as the rapist's child she was forced to raise, and more as a daughter—or at least a friend. Maybe Serena would even miss her a little. But all it did was make ignoring Olivia easier and give the woman the freedom to drink to her heart's content. And boy, did she ever.

So Olivia simply said, "No."

"Oh. Well, that is a shame." Beth Anne retracted her hand from Olivia's arm and poured the cornstarch mixture into the pot. She stirred it in with a wooden spoon, the wheels of her mind almost visible as they turned in unison. "I suppose if you had been, you'd understand why Amanda's 'choice to distance herself' from me, as you put it, is so hurtful and unfair."

This time it was Olivia who stopped to watch while Beth Anne tested the stew's thickness again, sampling a taste directly from the spoon. "I'm sure it wasn't her intention to hurt you or to be unfair. But isn't it unfair to expect her to just overlook all those years of abuse—"

"Amanda's daddy never laid a hand on her," Beth Anne snapped, pitching the spoon back into the pot like she was throwing a dart at a bullseye. "Or Kimberly. They got their rear ends spanked when they acted up, but that's how it is down South. We don't let our children run roughshod over us like y'all do up here. Spare the rod, spoil the child, Miss Benson. It wouldn't be in the Bible if it was a sin."

Olivia could have refuted each and every one of those claims in the time it took Beth Anne to salt and pepper the stew with three hearty shakes apiece. Corporal punishment was problematic at best, a dressed up form of child abuse at worst, and Olivia was sorely tempted to recite the statistics on its ineffectuality. She wouldn't even touch the part about the Bible, although she had grown up hearing her mother quoting it—in order to dismiss every word as ludicrous. The "spare the rod" verse had been one of her favorites to rip apart. (For a woman who railed so vehemently against whipping a child, Serena Benson had very few qualms with slapping her own daughter across the face from time to time.)

She could have verbally reduced Beth Anne to ash where she stood, stirring that damn pot. But what good would it do? Beth Anne had sixty years of indoctrination—as a Christian, an abuse victim, and a good little Southern belle—to contend with, and berating her was not the right approach. "I wasn't talking about Amanda," Olivia said softly, whittling at the dough for a moment without actually cutting through it. "Not specifically. I meant the abuse she watched you suffer."

"Well." Beth Anne gave a small sniff, raising her chin and squaring her shoulders. She resumed stirring in silence, as if that had been the end of her statement. Until: "I made sure the girls didn't see that. Just like I made sure Dean always took it out on me instead of them. Amanda thought she was her daddy's favorite—the two of them buddying around, fishing, watching sports, betting on anything that moved . . . What Little Miss Mandy Jo Rollins never figured out was that, if it weren't for me getting in his way, she would've been the one whose eyes he blackened and whose teeth he knocked out."

If the woman referred to Amanda as "little miss" anything one more time, Olivia didn't think she could keep herself in check any longer. She was already starting to hate Beth Anne a little bit, though it was still on a subconscious level and she would have denied it categorically, had she been asked. But Beth Anne's claim both chilled her to the core (just the thought of Amanda enduring such abuse was deeply painful) and made her anger flare white-hot. If Olivia didn't know better, she would say Mrs. Rollins almost _wanted_ her daughter to know how close she'd come to that violence; or worse yet, _wanted_ her to have experienced it firsthand.

Hoping to God she was wrong about that last part, Olivia said, "You and I both know those girls were aware of what was happening to you, Beth Anne. Mothers can't hide things like abuse or alcoholism from their—" She realized her slip-up an instant too late and hurriedly glanced away from Beth Anne's sharp gaze, pretending to be focused on cutting the last bits of dough into cubes. "Amanda's smart. And sensitive, even if she won't admit it. She might not have been the one getting hit, but she felt each punch and kick right along with you."

"I'm not surprised you're taking up for her." Beth Anne scooped up a handful of the uncooked dumplings Olivia had finished with and chucked them in the pot with an unceremonious plop. "She said you were a . . . oh, never mind."

Olivia sensed she was being baited, but the implication that Amanda and Beth Anne had discussed her at some point piqued her curiosity. And given Beth Anne's sudden reluctance to repeat it, whatever Amanda had supposedly said didn't sound good. "No, go ahead," she invited, steeling herself for the response. She circulated the knife blade in the air coaxingly, then sunk it into the thick dough, sawing. "I can take it. Said I was a what?"

"I don't like to tell stories out of school—"

"Sure you do."

Beth Anne cut her eyes at Olivia, narrowing them to green, viperlike slits. Her heavily painted lips, so similar to Amanda's in shape and expressiveness, slid into an almost imperceptible smirk. She tilted her head just so—pretty as a picture—and gave a little sigh of laughter. "I think she underestimated you, Captain. You're much more than just a bleeding heart. And you certainly don't have blinders on to the way the world works."

It wasn't that bad. Plenty worse had been said directly to Olivia's face over the years—by criminals, by victims still reeling from trauma, by distressed parents, by her mother. It wasn't bad, but it still hurt to think of Amanda saying those things. She reasoned that it might have been a long time ago, before they really got to know each other. At first, she'd thought Detective Amanda Rollins was an NYPD flash in the pan who would be back in Texa-sippi-tucky, possibly minus a badge, without making the full two-year stint that was typical of most sex crimes detectives. That impression had changed long ago, of course, and she regretted ever thinking it (or repeating it out loud to Alex Cabot).

But something about the phrasing—"just a bleeding heart" . . . "blinders on to the way the world works" . . . —rang familiar to Olivia. Former ADA Stone had told her to keep her bleeding heart out of his courtroom that day when tensions were running high over the Annabeth Pearl trial; the same day Amanda had told her she saw victims where there weren't any. Told her that the murdered Pearl husband was not William Lewis, as if she needed a reminder, as if she had blinders on to the world. And that hadn't been much more than a year or two ago.

Annoyed that she was allowing Beth Anne to get into her head and make her question Amanda's loyalty, Olivia sawed furiously at the remaining hunk of dough, like she was trying to cut a soda can in half. She warned herself not to go there, not even to ask it, but: "When did she say—"

In her anger and haste—and no matter how hard she fought it, her doubt—she forgot to keep an eye on the knife. It sliced cleanly through the dough and continued on through the web of skin that connected the thumb to her left hand. She didn't feel it until she looked down and saw it happening; then the pain was bright, searing, as if from a viciously slender paper cut. Only this paper cut was bleeding. A lot.

Olivia gasped and let the knife clatter onto the cutting board. For one brief but awful moment, she thought her thumb might go with it. But the digit stayed in place, thank God, and her main concern became the blood trickling onto the countertop, absorbed by the fine layer of flour that covered it, creating dime-sized drops of bloody batter. _Red velvet_ , she mused, instantly gritting her teeth against the thought.

"Son of a bitch," she hissed, holding her wrist as she withdrew to a safe distance from the food. It just had to be on her left side, didn't it? That was the site of her broken wrist—via William Lewis—and her strained rotator cuff, which had eventually torn and required surgery. Via Amelia Cole and Thaddeus Orion, respectively. And now, a near thumb amputation via her own damn self.

"Oh, honey. Careful." Beth Anne reached out and rescued her from stepping back on Frannie and Gigi's water bowl. She gripped Olivia by the arm, and with the other hand, reached for a dish towel that hung on the silverware drawer handle. She wadded it up and pressed it to the back of Olivia's hand, catching the drips that were gathered there, prepared to fall. "Oh my, it looks deep. Let's get you to the sink and rinse that off so I can see if you need stitches."

Somewhere deep down, Olivia wanted to obey. Beth Anne sounded worried, and Olivia couldn't remember the last time someone had shown her motherly concern when she was hurt. Amanda, of course, but hers was the concern of a friend, lover, fiancée . . . . There would always be that void—smaller now and easy to ignore, but forever missing, forever incomplete—which even the detective could not fill. A space carved out by Serena years ago. Or perhaps it had started as far back as conception, when Joseph Hollister dropped Olivia like a bomb into the middle of her mother's life and ran. Maybe the explosion had created that void, and maybe she was it.

Hating herself for going down that road again, and for standing there bleeding and wishing for something she could never have—certainly not with this woman—Olivia shrugged free of Beth Anne's grasp. "I'm okay. I'll rinse it off in the bathroom," she said, examining the cut. It was difficult to tell under all the blood, but she didn't think it would require stitches. Not like the caterpillar-shaped scar on her right palm, also from a knife.

Much of the time she had spent in the Manhattan Mangler's lair was lost to her, but occasional flashes, mostly in the form of images or smells, came back to her. She had one now, gazing down at her bloodied hand, only this was more of a physical sensation than the others. True, she saw herself fumbling with Amanda's utility knife, almost dropping it, grabbing the serrated blade that would leave a slash in her palm big enough for five sutures; but this time she could feel him behind her, his arm around her waist, his straight razor at her throat. Calvin Arliss, her almost son, her almost rapist and murderer . . .

Olivia felt him reaching for her wrist, instructing her to walk toward the kitchen sink ("Don't be so stubborn, you're as bad as my daughter"), a firm and guiding hand at her back.

"Don't touch me," she snarled, jerking away from the person she realized a second too late was Beth Anne, not Calvin.

The woman looked startled by Olivia's sudden mood swing, and she stepped back as if the lashing out might become physical as well as verbal. She tried to save face by crossing her arms and giving a haughty toss of her hair, but the fear in her clover-colored eyes was all too real. "Well, you don't have to shout, Captain. If you want to go on bleeding like a stuck pig, be my guest."

There had been no shouting and the pig comparison was less than flattering, but Olivia's guilt and embarrassment kept her from retaliating. The thought that Beth Anne had been afraid of her, even if only for a moment, was almost as painful as her sliced-open hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean— I'm sorry." She bent down to retrieve the dish towel Beth Anne had dropped, wrapping it hastily around the wound. "I'll let you finish up here. I should go pick up the kids, anyway . . . I hope I didn't ruin the dumplings."

Before her future mother-in-law could respond, Olivia spun on her heel and made a beeline for the bathroom. She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until the door closed and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, trapped air bulging in her cheeks. Expelling it with a loud huff, she took another deep breath in through her nose and carefully peeled the blood-stained terry cloth away from the cut.

"Shit," she whispered, stomach turning at the sight of the blood smeared in her palm. Ever since seeing so much of the stuff splattered on the floor, painted onto the sliding glass door, and weeping from the empty eye sockets of three dead bodies, she had lost some of the tolerance built up over her twenty-eight years on the force. Ten months later, and she could still smell that terrible odor, like old pennies—so potent it almost had a taste.

Wincing, she held her hand under the faucet and rinsed it thoroughly, trying not to look at the crimson runoff circling the drain, or the pink flecks that splashed onto the once clean sink. When the water ran clear and she had washed away most of the evidence of her blunder with the knife, she patted a paper towel to the wound, hoping that would be the only bandage she needed. But a fresh spot of blood began to blossom ( _poppies_ , she thought, insides churning) on the white sheet, spreading fast.

"Son of a bitch."

She snatched open the medicine cabinet, avoiding her reflection in the mirrored panels, and scrounged around inside until she found a roll of sterile gauze and a large adhesive bandage. The latter was leftover from some variety pack long since consumed by skinned knees and various playground mishaps. Olivia tore it open with her teeth, quickly peeled the backing off, and folded the Band-Aid over her split and seeping skin. It looked like she had used a pair of scissors to snip through the soft web of flesh beside her thumb. She almost certainly needed stitches, if it were to heal properly, but those would have to wait. School was letting out any minute.

Turning away from the mirror, Olivia reinforced the bandage with several wraps of gauze and tucked the loose end under the layers. Hopefully it would be enough to keep the blood in check, at least until the kids were home safely.

On her way to the front door, she heard Beth Anne call after her, "Careful on the roads, dear. It's dangerous out there."

She left without saying goodbye.

**. . .**


	13. Chapter 12: The Daughter of the Devil Himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Sorry this is late. FF.net is being glitchy and tbh I've been discouraged by the dwindling reviews, but... trying to keep on schedule. FYI, this chapter takes place after "Haunted" and before "Stalker." **TW** References to domestic violence & child abuse **/TW**

* * *

I've been searching for the daughter of the devil himself  
I've been searching for an angel in white  
I've been waiting for a woman who's a little of both  
And I can feel her but she's nowhere in sight

\- The Eagles, "One of These Nights"

* * *

## CHAPTER 12: The Daughter of the Devil Himself

**. . .**

Amanda knew it was a dream the moment Olivia raised the huge revolver and shot her. The gun should have been her first clue. Olivia wouldn't touch a firearm like that—not after being forced to play Russian Roulette with a similar weapon by William fucking Lewis. But up to the point when she had pulled the revolver out of her desk drawer, aiming it at Amanda from across her office (their home away from home, and the place where many arguments began or were reconciled), the dream had felt so real . . . the horrible words Olivia had spoken so believable . . .

"You know I could never truly love someone like you, right? You're a good fuck and all, but I can't keep slumming it for the rest of my life. I need an equal, not some trailer trash slut. Here, you can have your chintzy ring back." A pair of diamond studs sparkled in Olivia's ears, tear-shaped gems dangling from either side, shimmering dusty blue as she took the ring off her hand and placed it on the desk. "Don't cry, Easy-Ass Amanda. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird."

Then _bam_. Bullet to the abdomen, although it might as well have been the heart, after that speech. Amanda woke up clutching the sheets and sweating, confused to find herself not in Olivia's office but their empty bedroom. Flooded with instant relief that it had all been an illusion, she let out a small, choked sob and finished crying—for the tears had been quite real—into a fistful of bedding. The pain, it turned out, was real too. She bit down on a corner of bedspread as a hot, grating sensation spread through her entire middle. It felt like rusty steak knives were puncturing her vital organs, ground back and forth by a vicious, twisting wrist.

She desperately wanted Olivia. Not only because the pain was too unbearable to face alone, but because she needed to hear her fiancée's voice speaking kind and gentle words, its familiar, soothing cadence counteracting the hateful imitation that still echoed in her mind.

_I could never truly love someone like you . . ._

A glimpse of the bedside clock told her it was useless to call out for Olivia. The captain would be on her way to pick up the kids from school by now. The thought gave Amanda some comfort—it was routine and domestic, and she had missed her children the past couple days. There was also no way in hell Olivia would risk hurting those three by ditching their other mom. Even if the other mom was a pain in the ass who probably couldn't get out of bed on her own, let alone provide  
( _a good fuck_ )  
anything worthwhile at home or at work for the next few weeks.

Scrubbing the comforter across her cheeks to dry the tears, Amanda took the deepest breath her congested sinuses and fiery belly would allow. She needed to suck it up. Lying there wallowing in misery wasn't going to do her a damn bit of good, either.

"Rub some dirt on it, Mandy Jo," she muttered, repeating her father's motto, which she had adopted as her own around the age of ten. The first time she'd said it to poor Kimmie, after the six-year-old fell off their front porch swing and got a toothpick-sized splinter in her skinny little arm, she had taken Amanda at her word and tried to soothe the pain with a handful of garden soil. These days, Amanda was extra careful not to make such declarations around her kids, even in jest.

Tossing the covers aside, Amanda steeled herself and attempted to sit up. It was a mistake. A crucible of liquid metal upended in her guts. She didn't know at what temperature steel melted, but somehow her insides had reached that climate exactly. "Ah, ffff—" Leaning back heavily on her elbows, she panted and gripped the edge of the mattress so hard her hand began to cramp. She shook it off, flexing her fingers several times when her sluggish brain finally gave the signal to let go.

Well, fuck.

And out loud: "Fuck."

It took a few more tries and a lot of swearing, but she managed to prop herself upright and place both feet on the floor. She wasn't sure why standing up seemed so all-fired important right then, only that she was determined to do it, to walk over to the bureau, to find the earring box she had watched Olivia place in the top drawer days earlier. Just for a quick look. She hadn't studied the jewelry up close when it first arrived, her eyes too busy reading the note and then trying to read Olivia's expression as she turned her head side to side in front of the mirror, admiring the sparkly studs in her ears.

After the earrings were tucked out of sight in the drawer, Amanda had refused to ask for another look, just on principle. Olivia could deny all she wanted that there had ever been anything more than friendship between herself and Cabot—and she probably believed it, her modesty and fear of rejection sometimes blinding her to how deeply she affected others—but Amanda knew that Alex wasn't so innocent. She suspected that the communication between Olivia and the lawyer-turned-vigilante had increased since Amanda started dating the captain, or at least since they had moved in together. But she had no way of proving it, unless she went through Olivia's phone records and emails. That was too much of a violation to even consider. That was the sort of thing Dean Rollins would do.

Still, Amanda couldn't get that damn line out of her head: _Something blue_. ( _. . . dearest Liv . . ._ ) Of all the gifts to send from that hackneyed old rhyme, why did it have to be the one which matched her eye color? And Cabot's. It wasn't a coincidence, of that, Amanda was certain. But if she brought it up, she would sound crazy or jealous—or both. Why the hell had she told Olivia to go ahead and wear the earrings to the wedding? Now Amanda would be obsessing over them for months.

She pushed herself up from the bed, her ass hovering inches above the mattress for a few seconds, then she groaned and plopped back onto it. "Shit," she hissed, hand pressing instinctively against her side. As she mentally prepared for a second attempt, taking several steadying breaths—it was easier to ground herself when Olivia needed her—there was a knock at the bedroom door. Before she could answer, her mother cracked open the door and peered in.

"Oh, you are awake." Beth Anne pushed the rest of her way in, carrying the wooden tray on which Amanda had served Olivia breakfast in bed for Sweetest Day. It now contained a huge, steaming bowl of chicken and dumplings and a dessert plate laden with cornbread squares the size of dish sponges. A pat of butter melted on top of each golden slice, and a glass of milk stood above all, filled to the brim and so fresh there were bubbles on the surface.

Amanda's mouth began to water before the smell even reached her. If she ever ended up on death row, the food on that tray would be what she requested as her last meal. She was suddenly and wildly hungry.

"And already trying to get out of bed, I see," Beth Anne said, and made a rapid-fire tsking sound with her tongue. She nudged aside Olivia's current bedtime literature— _The Almost Moon_ by Alice Sebold—and a pair of the cheap drugstore reading glasses the captain collected by the dozen, and placed the tray on the nightstand. "Just as impatient to get well as you always were. Scoot that little behind of yours back up in there, missy."

Without giving Amanda the chance to do it herself, Beth Anne fluffed up the pillows and guided her towards them, doing everything but physically lifting her onto the bed. Amanda considered telling her mother the reason she had always rushed to get well was so she could escape this very treatment. Not to mention all the folk medicine and compulsory bed rest she'd endured, with Beth Anne playing warden. But another whiff of the food tray, and she held her tongue. She couldn't bitch out the person who had gone to the trouble of making her favorite meal, right down to the overflowing glass of milk. The unresolved anger over her mother's parenting style would wait, along with the earrings in the drawer.

"Smells real good, Mama," she said, easing back onto the pillows Beth Anne had stacked against the headboard. She barely winced at all, and when the tray was lowered into her lap, she accepted it eagerly. "Didn't think I was hungry, but I might could eat this entire bowl. And cornbread too, mm-mmm. I do miss your cooking, I surely do."

Beth Anne hitched up the thighs of her beige dress slacks—she never wore jeans, and sweatpants weren't even in her vocabulary—and seated herself on the edge of the bed, beaming. "I know what my girl likes." She plucked the spoon from atop the cloth napkin folded neatly on the tray and held it upright for Amanda to claim. "Now, eat up to your heart's content."

The fastest way to Amanda's heart might be through her stomach, but no amount of delicious, homemade comfort food could tame her rebellious streak. She picked up the fork instead of the spoon, though she preferred the latter for chicken and dumplings (scooped up more broth).

"Oh, I'm gonna," she said, stirring the fork around the bowl and spearing a golf-ball-sized dumpling. Usually they were bigger, but they were nothing short on taste she discovered, cramming the whole chunk into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she savored every minute of the large bite.

This was one of the good memories she did have from childhood. Even when everything else went to shit—fistfights at family reunions, the Christmas her daddy pawned all the presents and lost every penny he swore he'd double—even when it seemed like she had the worst family on earth, the food was still damn good.

"Mmm," she sighed.

"If they seem a little off, it's because I let Olivia make them."

That came as a surprise for two reasons: Beth Anne rarely let anyone assist her in the kitchen, and Olivia hadn't gone near the stove more than once or twice since moving into the apartment.

"You did?" Amanda peered suspiciously from one eye to see her mother gazing around the bedroom, taking in the silvery gray and white color scheme, chosen by Olivia for its simplicity and elegance. Blush pink embellishments broke up the monochrome and added a touch of feminine charm. It was the most aesthetic and tidy bedroom Amanda had ever slept in; she was still adjusting to it—forty years of dropping dirty clothes on the floor and rarely folding anything was a difficult habit to break—but the subtle bittersweet scent she'd come to associate with Olivia, a smell like fresh cranberries simmering to bursting, permeated the space and made it feel like home.

She could almost hear her mother mentally ticking off each transgression she spotted: Too much white (it was harder to clean and got dingy faster). The curtains should be above the floor, not touching it. Tufted velvet was a ridiculous and impractical indulgence for a headboard. Not enough natural lighting, throw rugs were unnecessary on carpet, only people with something to prove kept a book on the nightstand . . . and so on and so forth.

"She volunteered to help," Beth Anne said, gaze finally returning to Amanda and the bed. She pinched a few strands of dog fur from the all-white comforter and sprinkled them onto the carpet. "I couldn't exactly say no. It is her kitchen."

" _Our_ kitchen." Amanda stabbed at a piece of chicken, coating it in the thick stew. This time she took a smaller but no less delicious bite. "It's good you let her help. She probably just wanted to feel useful. And she did a good job. I wouldn't have been able to taste the difference if you hadn't told me."

Beth Anne's smile lasted too long, her posture going stiff and vertical. Holdover from her beauty pageant days. She looked like a creepy goddamned mannequin when she did that, and Amanda hated it.

"What?" Amanda asked, with more shortness than she'd intended. She took an oversized bite of cornbread—Lord, that was good—and sipped on the milk before the mouthful was gone. Sometimes she liked to dunk the cornbread directly into the milk, Oreo style, and then eat it, but she got the feeling that her mother was about to spoil her enjoyment of the meal. Might as well get as much of it in while she could.

After a hesitation that was painfully contrived, Beth Anne shook her head. "Never mind. It's nothing."

"Mama. I know that look. Spit it out."

"Well . . . " Beth Anne busied herself cleaning more of the crimped, creamy white strands of Gigi's fur and Frannie's shorter, coarser strays from the bedspread. "She's not very handy in the kitchen, is she? She acted like that dough was going to sprout teeth and bite her."

Amanda rolled her eyes and sunk her own teeth into one of the dumplings. She chewed a bit more slowly, already noticing some discomfort in her abdomen from the preceding bites. "She's a cop, not a gourmet chef. Most of the time she's too busy to sit down and eat a meal, let alone cook one."

"Yes, she seemed rather . . . distracted," Beth Anne said, her cryptic tone suggesting there was more to the comment than she let on. It was purely for dramatic effect. Beth Anne Rollins had never met a piece of gossip she didn't like—or like to spread. In high school, when she was Bethy Brooks, head cheerleader and homecoming queen, her senior superlative had been "Most Likely to Write a Tell-All." True to form, half of the yearbook pictures she was in depicted her whispering in someone's ear. "Still, a woman her age should know how to make dinner for her family. We're practically from the same generation, she and I, and girls were always taught to cook when I was growing up. It's odd that she never learned."

"Yeah, well, she's not from the South," said Amanda, swirling a chunk of cornbread around in the bowl with her fork. She waited a moment before bringing it to her lips, and only nibbled it once she did. "They do things differently up here. Besides, it's not like her mama cared enough to teach her."

The words were barely out of Amanda's mouth when she realized what she'd said and wanted to take it back. She had made a point of not discussing Serena with her own mother. Partly because she didn't know much about the woman, but also because she didn't want Beth Anne getting a hold of Olivia's personal details. Like an identity thief granted access to a social security number, Beth Anne looked for information to use against you, and when she got it, she bled you dry.

Sure enough, interest sparked in Beth Anne's verdant eyes, turning them emerald. But when she spoke, it was with an air of the blasé, as if it came as no surprise that Olivia's mother had been less than attentive. "She mentioned that, but you would think even a radical feminist would want her daughter to know how to take care of herself. It's a shame she died before they could patch things up."

As if thirty-two years of alcoholism, abuse, and neglect—thirty-two years of knowing your mere existence was resented by the person who should love you above all else—were a minor falling out, easy to forgive and forget. Then again, this was coming from the woman Amanda had seen crawl into her husband's lap and pepper him with kisses while her face was still bloody from his fists. What disturbed Amanda more than her mother kowtowing to abusers, which she'd come to expect by now, was that Olivia had apparently opened up to Beth Anne. During Amanda's first year at SVU, she could barely get two words out of Detective Benson at a time, and they certainly hadn't included any information about her mother. Eight years later, she was still only learning the extent of Serena's troubles a little at a time. Why would Olivia trust Beth Anne enough to bring up that part of her life so soon?

"She told you that?" Amanda asked, trying and failing to keep the incredulity out of her voice. And the jealousy. Normally she would hide it better, but the combination of pain, exhaustion, and drugs had her feeling raw and vulnerable. She didn't like it—the feeling, or her mother and fiancée bonding. "Why were y'all talking about her mom?"

"Oh, you know how conversations wander." Beth Anne's hand flitted like a caged bird, its home also its prison. For a moment, it lit on Amanda's knee, and then it was off again, preening at Beth Anne's hair. "I don't remember exactly how it came up, but the poor thing looked just sick about it. Goes to show, you should put aside your petty differences and cherish the time you have with your mama, before she's gone. Twenty years ago on the tenth, mm-mmm." She shook her head at the tragic unfairness of it all.

With a disgusted huff, Amanda dropped her fork back onto the tray. Her appetite was gone. She hadn't even known the tenth marked a significant date for Olivia; the captain hadn't said a word about it. "Being a lousy drunk who slaps her kid around is a damn sight more'n just a petty difference," Amanda said, pushing away the tray and almost spilling the mostly full glass of milk. It seesawed dangerously close to the brim. "Kinda like being a wife beater. Or an apologist for one."

Beth Anne didn't bat an eye at the accusation. Why would she, when she'd heard it a million times before and never took it seriously? She did, however, latch onto something else from Amanda's little snit. "Ah, her mama was a drinker, then."

 _Oh, fuck_. Amanda hadn't meant to say that. She tried to replay her exact words and found she couldn't. The painkillers were really doing a number on her focus and short-term memory. At least she hoped it was that, and not just her inability to control her anger. ( _And jealousy_ , she added, ashamed that she should feel such a thing simply because Olivia had talked about her past to someone else.)

"And she hit Olivia? How awful." Beth Anne shuddered, as if the idea of a parent raising a hand to his or her child was unfathomable. Belts and switches were perfectly acceptable, though. A father's implements, those. Mamas used yardsticks and wooden spoons, and one time in a pinch, a wire coat hanger. "But now it all makes sense."

"What? How does any of that make a damn lick of sense to you?" Amanda tried to sit forward, defensiveness increasing by the minute, but she made it no further than the breath she took in preparation. Even that hurt. "She was a little girl and her mom put her through hell because she blamed Olivia for—" Catching herself in the nick of time, she gave a lame shrug and finished: "—things that weren't her fault. Serena was a miserable bitch, and Olivia deserved better."

"Language, Amanda Jo." Beth Anne pursed her lips disapprovingly, just as she had whenever Amanda swore as a teenager. Which had been frequently and proficiently, thanks to Dean's influence. The man had thought it was hilarious to teach his angelic-looking towheaded daughters, who were barely out of the cradle at the time, to repeat profanity as blue as their eyes. Mama didn't find it quite so amusing, and that made it all the more appealing later on. "I didn't mean Olivia deserved to be mistreated. Just that it explains some of her . . . behavior."

Oh, this was going to be good.

"Her _behavior_?" Amanda gave a sharp bark of laughter. It pulled unpleasantly at her stitches, but anger made the pain easier to ignore. If her mother kept this up, Amanda might not even need anymore oxy. "You make her sound like she's a bratty kid or a dog who won't obey."

Abandoning the comforter, Beth Anne resorted to picking off the fuzz that only she could see on her perfectly clean slacks. She swept both palms down her thighs a few times, drawing out the silence until the room screamed with it. "No, she's neither of those. She's not innocent like that. She seems to have a lot of latent anger. It builds up until she eventually lashes out. Coming from violence like she does, it makes sense."

 _Coming from violence like she does_. The words hit Amanda like a fist to the gut, an already considerably tender spot. Beth Anne had no way of knowing how dangerously close she was to the truth, but Amanda knew—and the thought of her mother using that same phrase in front of Olivia made her physically ill.

"Children can inherit their parent's addictions, too. And . . . well, I noticed all the wine in the kitchen." Beth Anne looked up and bit her lip, fretful to go on. But that didn't stop her. "Is Olivia an alcoholic too, honey? You can tell Mama."

Amanda stared in disbelief, though it wasn't really much of a surprise. Her mother lived to tear other people down, especially when the other person was important to Amanda. It had started with her first Sunday school teacher, whom Beth Anne called Miss Dimwit (her real name was DeWitt) whenever Amanda spoke of her, and continued on to every female teacher or friend she showed affection for. Boys were usually fine, but other women or girls were competition and must be destroyed. And that was before Amanda had ever been in a same-sex relationship.

"Oh, good Lord," she said, dropping her head back against the headboard. She was almost too tired and fed up to dignify the question with a response. Almost, but not quite. "No, Mother, my fiancée is not a goddamned alcoholic. Unlike some people, she knows when to quit."

"There's no need to get nasty. I was only asking." Beth Anne folded her arms, bottom lip protruding in a pout Amanda had seen on her sister's face many times over the years—and looking back at her in the mirror. She had learned from the best. "Can't I be concerned about who my daughter is choosing to marry? I was beginning to think you and Kim were never going to find someone and settle down, and now that you finally have, it has to be with a . . . "

For once, Beth Anne thought better of it and shut her mouth, but it was too late for that. Amanda knew exactly where the rest of the sentence had been going. "Go ahead, say it. A woman," she said, purring the last word just to make her mother squirm. "Your daughter is marrying a woman."

"It has to be with _her_ ," Beth Anne finished, cheeks reddening. The caged birds attached to her wrists suddenly became agitated, startling from her lap and darting this way and that, as if a cat or other natural predator stalked them beyond the bars. She always got flustered when she was angry, probably from years of suppressing the emotion around her husband, whose anger was so big and frightening, it swallowed everyone else's whole. "I know for a fact she has a temper, I've seen it. You should keep an eye on that. It may be easy to overlook at first, but that kind of rage . . . it's dangerous, Mandy. She practically bit my head off for trying to help when she hurt herself, and I was just—"

The moment Amanda realized what her mother was insinuating—that Olivia had some sort of violent streak like the one Dean Rollins terrorized his wife and children with, for almost two decades—she had tuned the woman out. She would not take advice from someone who had run back to her abuser every chance she got; and it was the most asinine thing Amanda had ever heard, the suggestion that Olivia was in any way abusive. But the part about the captain getting hurt instantly snapped Amanda to attention. "What?" she demanded, gesturing for Beth Anne to verbally back up a few paces. "She hurt herself? What happened?"

"Oh, it was nothing." Beth Anne gave an indifferent little shrug. She looked like she was about to start examining her fingernails and patting at a yawn. "Cut her hand when she was slicing the dumplings. I couldn't make as many as usual because she bled all over the—"

"What the hell, Mama. Is she okay?"

"How should I know? I was going to wash the blood off for her, but when I reached for her hand, she acted like I was the devil himself. Jerked away from me and told me not to touch her. I'm lucky I didn't drop dead right there, the look she gave me. Those dark, shiny eyes." More pouting and fussing at the hair, though not a strand was out of place. "It frightened me, honestly. She's much more . . . robust than I— what on earth are you looking for?"

"My phone." Amanda sifted through the covers, shaking them out and tossing pillows aside as she went. She patted herself down too, despite having no pockets to carry a cell. She tried to remember the last time she had used the device, but all she could recall was scrolling through Instagram days earlier and commenting to Olivia about annoying celebrity pet photos. The captain had pointed out that both her and Amanda's camera rolls were chock full of similar pooch pictures—everything from extreme nose closeups that resembled the surface of an unidentified planet to furry blobs that might have been a wagging tail or the infamous Sasquatch shot. Amanda couldn't bring herself to delete even the bad ones. "I have to call Liv and make sure she's all right."

"She's fine, honeybun." In spite of the saccharine nickname, there was annoyance in Beth Anne's voice. She grabbed the dinner tray by its handles, steadying it just as the milk was about to topple over. With the agility of a mother who had been preventing disasters for the past four decades, she whisked the tray aside and set it heavily on the nightstand. "Olivia is a grown woman. You don't have to come running every time she gets a little cut. She bandaged it up herself, then walked out like I wasn't even there. You'll have to work on her manners."

"Help me find it," Amanda said, not hearing a word that came before. The cut wasn't what worried her, at least not as much. What worried her was the description Beth Anne had given of Olivia's eyes and the recoiling. Her mother wouldn't know to include those details if she was merely exaggerating. Amanda had seen for herself that dark and glassy stare, that aversion to touch. It frightened her too, but not because she believed Olivia might harm her. They were indicators of a flashback, something the captain seldom experienced these days, unless triggered by a significant event. "What the hell did you say to her, Mother? She wouldn't just go off like that for no reason."

"Oh, so now it's my fault your . . . _girlfriend_ has a bad temper?" Beth Anne lost her Southern drawl almost entirely when she enunciated "girlfriend" as if it were a dirty word. She gestured around the room at nothing in particular. "What else am I responsible for, global warming? The war on reproductive rights?"

"I wouldn't put it past ya," Amanda snapped. She tried to lean over and feel around on the nightstand for her phone, but got no further than extending her arm, which she quickly retracted with a whimper. Hurt like a sumbitch just to stretch out her limbs. "You must have done something to trigger her. And she's my fiancée, not my girlfriend."

"Trigger her? What does that mean?" Beth Anne drew the covers back into place when Amanda flung them from her lap. "And how much of a fiancée can she really be, if she's not even wearing her engagement ring?"

Amanda had the overwhelming urge to dash her own brains out against the headboard, but the padding underneath its tufted fabric surface would probably slow down the process. "She's not wearing it because the guy who robbed the bank literally ripped it off her finger and gave it to the bitch who shot me. Stole an expensive watch her mom gave her too. They're in evidence now and it takes a while to get that stuff back."

Knowing the Never Yielding Perpetual Dickaround, Olivia would be lucky if the ring was returned to her in time for the wedding. But Amanda decided not to mention that part out loud. Her mother would probably suggest Olivia should have risked getting her head blown off to keep the ring on her finger.

"Oh." Beth Anne folded her lips into a thin line, momentarily chastised. It didn't last long.

"Well, all the same, I'd give her some time to cool down," she said, and picked up the plate of cornbread, wavering it under Amanda's nose the way Amanda tried to tantalize Frannie with the fancy grain-free dog food that Gigi preferred. "Have some more while it's still warm. I bet she'll be home by the time you—"

Amanda pushed the plate aside with the back of her hand, nearly knocking it out of Beth Anne's grasp. "I don't want anymore. Can you just wrap it up for later and get my phone for me while you're out there?"

Mumbling something about a one-track mind, Beth Anne returned the cornbread to the tray and sighed. "I think Olivia took your phone with her. She had it in her purse when we left the hospital, and I doubt she remembered to take it out, the way she rushed out of here."

"Well, get me yours then," Amanda said, too tired and frustrated to mince words. Despite her rocky relationship with Beth Anne, she had been raised to respect her mother. In the South, giving direct orders to your mama was a surefire way to get your mouth washed out with soap, or your britches tanned. Amanda had outgrown both punishments quite a while ago, but she would probably never completely outgrow that "yes, ma'am" mentality.

"Please," she added through gritted teeth.

After a brief stare down that ended with Beth Anne sighing, "Oh, for pity's sake," and standing up in a huff, she took the tray away, head shaking as she went. It was still shaking when she returned several moments later and handed over her cell phone. Amanda waited with an expectant look, but this time Beth Anne planted her feet and squared her shoulders, making it clear she intended to stay put and listen to every word.

 _Okay then_ , Amanda thought, tapping Olivia's number in from memory. Better Beth Anne stand there listening than huddling outside the bedroom with her ear to the door, anyway. If she learned information head on, there was less chance of her using it as ammunition later. Or at least less chance that she would hear anything of value. In this case, it appeared to be the latter option, because Olivia's phone went to voicemail after three rings.

"Hey, baby, just checkin' in," Amanda said, after the beep. She kept her eyes on the bedspread, picking at the ruched material and avoiding her mother's intent gaze. She didn't want to see the smug look on Beth Anne's face when she realized the call hadn't gone through. "Think you might have my phone, that's why I'm on Mama's. Call me back, okay? Love you."

As soon as Amanda ended the call, Beth Anne's hand came out for the phone; Amanda laid it down on the nightstand, barely concealing a smug smile of her own. These little acts of defiance were petty and childish, she knew, but they had been her way of fighting back against her mother's overbearing tendencies for as long as she could remember. No sense changing now.

"I told you." Beth Anne swiped her palms back and forth briskly, as if the matter were settled. She was right, and that was that. "She's probably driving like a maniac through the streets of Manhattan as we speak. Lord help those babies of yours."

"Or she's in a ditch somewhere, passed out from blood loss," Amanda said, only half serious. More than likely, Olivia simply hadn't recognized the number trying to reach her and opted to screen the call. The captain had become more selective about who she picked up for since that spate of crank calls last October—an out-of-state area code would send up a major red flag. (Amanda still wanted to know who was responsible for that twisted prank, which had left her fiancée shaken and out of sorts for days afterward. She would give the sorry SOB a little glimpse of what a real Georgia smackdown looked like, if she ever got the chance.)

But Beth Anne didn't need to know any of that. And she had just acknowledged that the kids belonged to Amanda, as well as Olivia, so she deserved some credit. Not a lot, but some.

"You shouldn't confess such awful things, Mandy." Beth Anne patted at the small gold cross around her neck, as though it needed consoling. "You better tell Jesus you're sorry and ask him for a more positive attitude."

"Lemme get right on that," Amanda muttered, sinking down in the bed. Conversations with her mother were always exhausting, especially when they turned to religion, but it was even worse when she had no energy to begin with. Not wanting to fall asleep and miss Olivia's return call, she struggled to keep her heavy eyelids open. But despite her best efforts, she was losing the fight.

"Why don't you go on back to sleep now?" Beth Anne spoke softly, reaching for her cell phone on the nightstand.

"Ain't tired." Amanda forced her eyes wide and clapped a hand over the phone. "Uh-uh. Leave it."

"Listen to you. 'Mama, do this. Mama, do that.'" Beth Anne swiped the phone out from under Amanda with the ease of a street magician swindling tourists via the ball and cups game. Like it or not, Amanda had gotten her wiliness and quick reflexes somewhere—and it sure wasn't from just her daddy, who couldn't find his way out of a wet paper bag unless it was by punching. "This city's been a bad influence on your manners, too. Now, hush. I will answer if she calls back."

Amanda shook her head and waggled her outstretched fingers. Her hand felt so damn heavy, she let it drop back to her side. "Huh-uh. I wanna talk to 'er myself."

"Nonsense, you can barely hold your head—"

"Mother."

Heaving a massive sigh, Beth Anne held the phone on grand display but did not hand it over. "Fine. If she calls, I will drop everything I'm doing and rush right in here for you to talk to her. Happy?"

Not really. But Amanda was fading faster by the minute. She fixed her mother with the most solemn look she could muster while her eyes were halfway closed. "And you'll wake me up, even if I've only been asleep for five seconds."

"I'll fire a twenty-one gun salute right here in the middle of your bedroom if I have to," Beth Anne said, clutching the phone to her chest like she was reciting an oath.

"You better, Mama, b'cause—"

The "because" was never elaborated on any further; slumped sideways against a mound of pillows, an arm cradled protectively across her belly, Amanda was already asleep.

**. . .**


	14. Chapter 13: An Angel in White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switched things up a little for this chapter. I was hesitant to write from a POV other than Liv's or Amanda's, but I really like how it turned out. And it is important to the plot, so I wouldn't recommend skipping it. Don't worry, Liv & Amanda return in the next chapter, and there's a fun cameo from another fan-favorite in this one. No trigger warnings this time, but I'll warn you that it is heavy on bigotry and cattiness.

## CHAPTER 13: An Angel in White

**. . .**

No more than a minute after Beth Anne closed the bedroom door behind her, unfazed by the loud latch (her Mandy had always slept like the dead), the phone rang.

"Well, look who it is," she said in a prim little voice, smirking at the legend "Lt. Benson" illuminating the screen. She had already updated the contact name from "Amanda's Boss" to "Sgt. Benson" years ago, and she saw no sense in rushing to fix it now. Why, as quickly as Miss Benson—whoops, _Captain_ Benson—clawed her way up the career ladder, it wouldn't be long before another change of title was due anyhow.

Beth Anne honestly had nothing against the captain, but she did find it rather fishy that a woman of Olivia's age, who had previously dated men and who so obviously craved power, would be interested in Amanda. Of course Beth Anne's daughter was beautiful and intelligent, even heroic perhaps, but she was also young and foolhardy. She let herself be taken in by authority, and it got her into situations like that messy business in Atlanta with Deputy Chief Patton, another of her bosses. What Amanda needed was a man who appreciated her good qualities and helped curb the bad ones. What Olivia needed was someone of her own age and echelon to be a father to her children—and to keep the drinking and that temper of hers in check.

Then there was the fact that the captain had once forced Beth Anne to entrap her youngest daughter and arrested Kim like she was a common criminal. Miss Benson just couldn't seem to leave Beth Anne's little girls alone.

(Maybe she did have a few bones to pick with Olivia, after all.)

"Hello?" Beth Anne asked, pinning the phone between her shoulder and ear as she scraped Amanda's leftovers into the garbage disposal with a fork. She had made enough chicken and dumplings and cornbread to feed a small army; unless Olivia and the children were feeling particularly gluttonous when they got home, there would be plenty of dinner for everyone, and then some.

"Um, hi, Beth Anne. I just got Amanda's . . . yes, her message." Olivia sounded distracted and seemed to be turning her head away from the phone to answer questions. Children's voices were piping in the background, excited over something loud and electronic. "Shh, Jesse, Mommy's on the phone. May I speak with her? With Amanda . . . yes, that's right."

Beth Anne took a bite of Amanda's unfinished cornbread square and tossed the remainder at the sink drain, where it wedged in the rubber splash guard. She washed it down with the milk, only feeling slightly guilty for such waste. From the looks of this apartment and that closet of hers, Captain Benson could afford a fresh gallon of milk now and again.

"She was just dozing off when I left her, but if you'd like, I can go in and wake her for you," Beth Anne said, and flipped the garbage disposal switch. It roared to life, drowning out Olivia's reply and making the drain on the opposite side glug like an old drunk. The thought struck her as funny, and she had to suppress a giggle when she silenced the disposal. "I'm sorry, what was that, dear? You do want me to wake her?"

"No, no, no. Don't disturb her. Jess honey, sit—" Olivia hefted something up, presumably a child, and for a moment there was a great rustling on her end of the call.

"Is that Grammy? Hi, Grammy," Jesse said, speaking so closely to the microphone that Beth Anne had to hold the cell phone away from her ear. "Guess what? Mommy's gettin' sitches. What? Oh. Mommy's gettin' _stit_ ches. Her hand's all bloody. It's uh-sgusting!"

"Stitches, my goodness." Beth Anne played up the shock for her granddaughter's benefit, but she was surprised by the announcement. Apparently the cut to Olivia's hand had been deeper than she expected. Well, that was what happened when you were too busy mouthing off to pay attention to your slicing. "That's just terrible. Your Auntie Olivia should be more careful, shouldn't she?"

There was a long pause on the line, followed by Olivia's terse voice: "Is Amanda okay? Does she need anything?"

"We're right as rain here," said Beth Anne, not particularly worried if Olivia had heard the comment. She had agreed to play grandmother to the captain's children, that much was true—and easy, as sweet and innocent as those little angels were. But she'd made no such promise about accepting their mother as her daughter or as anything more than an "auntie" to Miss Jesse Eileen. "You just focus on that poor hand of yours and let me take care of Mandy Jo."

After another long silence and what sounded like a hiss of pain, Olivia replied, "If she wakes up, please let her know I called, Beth Anne. And that I'll be home as soon as I can."

"Will do, sugar. Bye bye, now."

"Goodb—"

Beth Anne hung up before the captain was finished and pocketed her cell, humming as she returned to tidying up the kitchen. She finished within minutes (Olivia kept a clean house, Beth Anne would give her that), and she had just split a large piece of cornbread in two, placing a half in both of the dogs' dishes, when there came a knock at the front door.

"Who could that be, Frannie?" she asked, smacking the dog lightly on the rump on her way past. The pit bull was scarfing the treat down like it hadn't eaten in weeks; meanwhile, the golden retriever still inspected its bowl, as if it were uncertain of the contents. "Better eat up, Gigi, otherwise sissy's gonna help herself."

The dark-haired girl outside the door was much taller than Beth Anne had anticipated through the peephole. She looked like she might have a heavy accent, and judging by the gold squiggles on her necklace, it would be something Middle Eastern and difficult to understand. Beth Anne never missed Georgia more than when she had to try communicating with the foreigners in this smelly old city.

She sighed and prepared herself for the trial to come, so it caught her completely off guard when the girl looked at her point-blank and asked in perfect English (if that atrocious New York accent could be called perfect), "Who the hell are you?"

"You came to my door, young lady. I should be asking who you are," Beth Anne said, bristling. She kept a hand on the knob, in case she had to shut and lock the door quickly. The girl might be American, but she was rough around the edges, to say the least.

Eyeing Beth Anne from head to toe, the girl smirked like she had just heard a mildly amusing joke. A joke she'd heard a million times before. "Kat Tamin, NYPD. And actually, I came to my captain's door." She stuck her head inside the open doorway, peering around the apartment, casual as you please. "She here?"

"Olivia? No, she's picking up her children from school." Beth Anne put her free hand high on the doorjamb, blocking further entry. Hospitality said she should invite this Kat person in, but she wasn't feeling very hospitable at the moment. Cop or not, she didn't know the girl from Adam, and based on the impression she got so far, she didn't care to. "But this is my daughter's apartment as well. She's sleeping right now, so you'll understand why I can't ask you in."

Kat rolled the gum she was chomping around with her tongue. She chewed with her mouth open, and Beth Anne could see the gum against her back molars, small and shriveled and green. It smelled like spearmint. "So, you're Amanda's mom, huh? Shoulda known with that accent. And the hair. How's she doing?"

The nerve! Beth Anne had the decency not to mention the New York accent—or the nonexistent Middle Eastern one she would have smiled and tolerated, like you were supposed to these days—she could at least be afforded the same courtesy. Besides that, Georgia accents were delightful. "She's just fine, thank you," she said in a tone honeyed enough to draw flies. "I should peek in on her soon, though. What was it you wanted, sweetie?"

"Kat. I was just stopping by to return the captain's personal effects from the robbery." The girl brandished a purse that had seemed rather out of place dangling from the crook of her arm. In her other hand, she held a gallon storage baggie with a diamond ring and a large watch at the bottom. She looked mighty proud of herself. "Had to twist a few arms, but I got 'em out of evidence. I didn't wanna wait till she was back at work to give them to her."

"Well, bless your heart," Beth Anne said, too distracted by the ring to infuse the expression with much venom. She had seen the matching band on Amanda's finger, but there was something far more intriguing about this one. The captain had probably insisted on a bigger diamond (and poor Mandy, letting that she-wolf lead her around by the nose, agreed). "Olivia will be tickled to death. And delivered straight to her door. What service. It's almost like this whole city just bows right down at her feet."

Kat's smile wavered, her dark eyebrows knitting together at the pronouncement. She lowered both of the bags to her side. "Yeah, well, she's a kick-ass captain. And a great person. Guess I'll come by later to give her these."

"Oh, nonsense. You can leave them. I'll make sure she gets them," Beth Anne said, careful not to appear too eager as she waited for the items to be handed over. She brought out the smile that had won her Miss Georgia State 1976, and sprinkled on some extra sugar. "And I'll tell her she has the lovely Detective Tamin to thank for getting them back so soon."

"It's Officer, actually." Kat gave Beth Anne the once-over again, a dubious expression on her dramatic features. (Beth Anne supposed she was pretty, if you liked that ethnic look. She had a similar coloring and stature to Olivia, whose family tree Beth Anne would kill for a peek at. Until today, she hadn't known whether the captain had any relatives at all, and with the mother dead, she still wasn't sure. In any case, from the looks of the daughter, Mama Benson had kept some interesting company in her drinking days. And where to begin, with Olivia's children? They looked nothing alike, which meant two different daddies, and the youngest didn't even resemble Olivia, either. What on earth Amanda was marrying into, Beth Anne could not figure out.)

"They haven't made you detective yet, with your smarts and initiative?" Beth Anne tsked in disbelief. She was laying the flattery on extra thick, but the girl was young and boastful. Hopefully that would work in Beth Anne's favor. Younger women were always easier to fool. "Well now, that's a shame. But I bet someone like you is on the fast track. You'll have that shiny little badge in no time."

"Not really. I still got a couple years." Kat gave an indifferent shrug, but there were traces of a smile on her full lips. She made no attempt to hand over the belongings, though. "Can't afford to screw up, so I'm gonna hang on to these."

Shoot.

"Suit yourself. I just think it's silly to bring them all the way here and then have to come all the way back. I've got Olivia's number right here on my phone, if you'd like me to call so you can get her permission." Beth Anne patted her pants pocket, where the cell resided. She had no intentions of calling Olivia for any such thing, but this girl would probably rather chew glass the way she was gnawing that gum than pester her boss for permission. Like a kid or a suck up. Just for show, Beth Anne took out the phone. "I was actually just talking to her a minute ago. Poor dear is worried sick about Amanda. She's like a daughter to me already, and it breaks my heart to see her in such a state. It devastated her to have that ring torn right off her finger."

For one brief moment, the wary look on Kat's face faltered, her brow furrowing in concern. The girl cared about her boss, as Beth Anne suspected she would. God only knew why, but the police captain inspired fierce loyalty in her squad members. She had Amanda so mixed up, she risked life and limb for the older woman on a regular basis. Little Miss Amanda had better keep an eye out for this one, though; Olivia liked them younger.

Beth Anne was so absorbed in her reverie, she almost missed the opportunity she'd been building towards. Hesitantly, Kat looked at the bags she was holding, her eyes going to the upside down ring (must be top-heavy with that rock it contained) in the clear plastic Ziploc. She lifted and lowered the bag once or twice, as if weighing her options.

"Or," said Beth Anne, going in for the kill, "I could wake Amanda up, and you could get the okay from her?"

"No, don't do that." For the first time since the door opened, Kat appeared unsure of herself. Several moments ticked by where she might have gone either way, but finally she thrust the purse and Ziploc baggie at Beth Anne. "Here. You'll make sure she gets these first thing?" she asked, pulling back at the last second. "And that no one else touches them?"

"I will guard them with my life." Finding it hard to keep a straight face, Beth Anne folded her lips together and nodded resolutely. _Candy from a baby_ , she thought, as she reached for the jewelry and the purse, which looked expensive—Prada or Saint Laurent, most likely. Nothing but the best for Captain Benson.

It turned out to be Coach, as Beth Anne discovered a few moments later when the brusque young officer had gone and she was rifling through the purse's contents. Not quite as lavish as expected, but still upwards of three hundred dollars. An outrageous amount for a handbag and definitely above Amanda's price range. The makeup inside was of a similar quality: not cheap, but not unreasonably high end. And there wasn't that much of it, just a lipstick, some balms, and a mascara tube. The captain would be one of those women who insisted on wearing the bare minimum in cosmetics. Probably thought she didn't need it.

"Give it another year or two, sweet cheeks," Beth Anne muttered to the driver's license photo in Olivia's wallet. The picture wasn't as awful as she'd hoped, but she smirked at the height. Five-nine, Amazon status. Somewhat disappointedly, she noted that New York licenses didn't include weight as did the ones in Georgia. DOB: 02/07/1968.

Oh, Mandy.

Not much else of interest in the wallet, besides a couple credit cards, several punch cards for free coffee from a place called Java Jake's, and seventy-five in bills. Beth Anne, who was no thief, started to zip the wallet back up, until she noticed the small notecard peeking out from an inner pocket, the initials A.C. swirled elegantly on the front. She caught a faint whiff of something floral when she opened the card and read:

_Something blue. Congratulations, dearest Liv. - A_

Now, that was interesting. The penmanship definitely belonged to a woman, and a fancy one at that. Who used scented, monogrammed cards anymore, other than grandmas and women in Nicholas Sparks novels? Olivia was too old to have a living grandmother, or at least one still able to hold a pen. And if it was wedding-related, as the note implied, why was it only addressed to one of the brides?

Tucking the card back in place, Beth Anne tucked the information away in her brain as well. She waded through several balled up tissues, a bottle of hand sanitizer, a packet of baby wipes, a tin of Altoids, five ink pens, two pairs of reading glasses, and another handful of Java Jake's punch cards. No tiny booze bottles like they served on planes or in a hotel mini bar. Not even a lottery ticket to tempt a recovered gambler. Other than a caffeine addiction, the captain didn't seem to have any vices, at least none she liked to keep close.

"Aren't we Little Miss Perfect," Beth Anne said in a snide tone, just as her grasping fingers came across something that rattled. Ooh, she knew that sound . . .

Triumphantly, she brought out the pill bottle, her excitement doubling at the sight of an Rx label. It seemed perfect Captain Benson had been prescribed 25mg of Zoloft a day by Lindstrom, Peter MD. When a quick Google search on Beth Anne's phone confirmed that Lindstrom was a psychiatrist, she did a happy dance right there in her seat. And when she tried on Olivia's stolen engagement ring, holding up her hand to admire its shimmer in the light, she crooned to it, "I knew I'd find some dirty laundry if I looked long enough. Yes, I did."

She had searched the master bedroom and bathroom from top to bottom her first night in the apartment, but found nothing more incriminating than a wide array of migraine tablets, one box of tampons (obviously Amanda's, so Olivia _had_ gone through The Change), and the drawer filled with sex toys, a few for which Beth Anne didn't even know the function. There was a safe on the top shelf in the closet, but when Amanda and Jesse's birthdates failed to unlock it—as did her own, though she hadn't gotten her hopes up for that one—she had given up trying to guess the combination. It probably just held guns anyway, and she hated those things. Her daddy had been a gun enthusiast who taught her to fire a pistol as soon as she could hold one. But after having Dean Rollins' .22 waved in her face on numerous occasions, she'd lost her taste for firearms completely.

This single bottle and the flower-scented notecard were better than all those other potential skeletons in the closet combined. She had something on Olivia now, and even if she never got the chance to use it, she liked knowing it was an option.

"Goin' to the chapel and we're gonna get married," she sang airily, smacking an enthusiastic kiss to the diamond on her finger before she slipped it off and returned it to the Ziploc bag.

Humming a few more bars of the song, she brought out the hefty watch that accompanied the ring. She didn't have much interest in the big, clunky thing—figures the captain would prefer something mannish to the slender, more delicate timepieces meant for a lady—but Amanda had said it was expensive. Another Google search of the brand name Breitling on the watch's face confirmed that account.

"Jiminy Christmas," Beth Anne exhaled. There was about six thousand dollars' worth of stainless steel, sparkling crystal and genuine leather ticking away in the palm of her hand. She traced her fingertips along the collection of pristine parts, marveling at the sheer ostentation, the wastefulness. Amanda had said the watch was a gift from Olivia's mother, but Beth Anne didn't know many mothers who could afford such frivolity, even for their only daughter. She certainly couldn't.

Her fingers detected etching on the back of the case and she turned it over, revealing a brief inscription in the gleaming steel:

 _To my daughter,_  
_of whom I'm so very proud.  
_ _All my love, Mom_

Beth Anne sniffed. "You should've taught her not to go around sleeping with other people's daughters." She rolled the watch back over and let it continue to slide from her hand, clunking heavily against the table. Gigi's head shot up from the arm of the couch, but it was Frannie that trotted over to inspect the sound. The pit bull lay its head in Beth Anne's lap, and she stroked it absently, glaring at the watch. "You should've taught her that marriage is a sacred union between a woman and a _man_."

Suddenly, she hated the watch and everything it represented: inordinate wealth, a selfish daughter who didn't appreciate the mother she was given, the woman responsible for how Olivia had turned out, and Olivia herself. That arrogant, bitchy . . . _lesbian_.

Without thinking, Beth Anne grabbed up the watch by its leather strap and gave a swift downward stroke, like she was popping open a biscuit can against the countertop. The Breitling's perfect crystal face collided with the edge of the table, and she heard a dull, irrevocable crunch.

Whoopsie daisy.

Moments later, the watch was back in the sealed baggie beside Olivia's purse. Beth Anne was seated between the dogs on the couch, thumbing through a _Harper's Bazaar_ she'd bought at the airport but hadn't read yet.

**. . .**


	15. Chapter 14: Houses of the Holy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N as it appears on ff.net: Wow, Beth Anne got quite a reaction! Ngl, I am thoroughly amused by how much everyone hates her. She is definitely a difficult character to like (but oh so much fun to write). For those of you predicting that she's going to cause more trouble for our girls... well, all I can say is, good guess. And stay tuned! :) Again, thank you for the comments (Shout-out to my two reviewers on AO3, w00t). They never fail to make me smile. Mild **TW** for brief references to rape. **/TW** Who's ready for a little bit of lightheartedness and the Rolivia babies?

## CHAPTER 14: Houses of the Holy

**. . .**

"Will Mama be bloody like you were, Mommy?"

Per usual, Jesse was spokesperson of the group and the one with all the questions, but when Olivia glanced in the rearview mirror, three sets of wide blue eyes were gazing up at her. Noah's were the most solemn—a fact that troubled her whenever she noticed it—and Jesse's were the most curious. Wedged between them in her car seat, Matilda was the most apprehensive. Today, the two-and-a-half-year-old had learned a new word: suture.

Taking the kids into an urgent care center while she got three stitches in her hand was not Olivia's first choice of after-school activities for young children, but her options were limited. Lucy was celebrating Christmas early with out-of-town relatives, and Carisi didn't need his former boss dumping three kids in his lap, which was likely already full of briefings and trial notes.

There was no way in hell she would take her kids back home to Beth Anne Rollins; she wouldn't be beholden to that woman for anything, from now on. But the other moms had been looking askance at her seeping bandage by the time she got to Noah and Jesse's school, and she'd felt a little woozy bending over to pick up Matilda and put her in the car seat.

She hadn't lost that much blood, but a slow, steady bleed and an empty stomach were a bad combination. She'd started to feel sick in the clinic waiting room, with Jesse and Matilda climbing her legs like a jungle gym, and she almost passed out when the nurse took off the bandage to examine the wound. They had given her crackers to nibble and an orange juice cup with a lid she couldn't unseal because her hands were shaking so badly. She hadn't forgotten to eat on purpose—the day simply got away from her. But the nurse eyed her and the kids as if suspicious of something more sinister, and asked multiple times if she was certain the injury had been accidental. It was this exchange that made her miss Amanda's phone call.

Now, the local anesthetic had started to wear off and Olivia could barely grip the steering wheel without pain in her left hand. If she kept going, her whole left side would be nothing more than scar tissue and a shoulder and wrist that throbbed whenever it rained.

"No, sweet girl, Mama won't be bloody," said Olivia, reaching her right arm back to pat Jesse's knee. "The doctor already fixed her all up and put a big Band-Aid on her tummy. But I want you three to make me a promise, okay?"

A chorus of uh-huhs and okays rang out, but this time Noah asked the question: "What kind of promise, Mom?" (That was fairly new—Mom instead of Mommy. It had started not long after his first dance recital, when he'd embarrassed himself backstage by calling out "Mommy!" in front of all his friends. If Olivia was being honest, she didn't much like the change, but for her son's sake, she accepted it.)

"Mama's going to be very tired and very sore for a while. Remember how icky you guys felt when you had strep throat a couple months ago?" Olivia waited until all three heads—one blonde, one brunette, and one ginger—bobbed in agreement.

"I threw up in your bed," Jesse proclaimed somewhat proudly.

"Frew up inna bed," Matilda agreed, much more troubled than her sister by the admission. She had recovered from the infection quicker than the older children and would eventually forget it altogether, but the night she and Jesse had wandered into their mothers' room at 1 AM, holding hands like the twins from _The Shining_ and dousing the comforter in vomit after a brief announcement that they didn't feel well, would be burned into each of their minds for years to come.

Each, except Noah, who had slept through the entire debacle, only to wake up a few hours later with his throat on fire. "It even hurt to eat ice cream," he said, mournful.

Olivia nodded along sympathetically as they recounted their harrowing ordeal. "That's right, loves. And that's how bad Mama's going to feel. Maybe even worse. So she needs you three to be extra careful with her. No roughhousing until she's well, and she won't be able to pick you up like she normally does."

"What about Tilly? She's little." Jesse reached for Matilda's hand, raising it high to demonstrate how effortlessly light the toddler was. Amicable as ever, Matilda stretched her tiny arm to its limit and echoed, "I little."

"Huh-uh." Noah twisted sideways in his seat belt and fixed a serious look on his sisters. He did not take his role as big brother lightly. "Tilly's still too big. Don't you remember when Mommy's arm got hurt? She couldn't pick stuff up with it for a long, long time. Even Tilly, and she was littler back then. Right, Mom?"

Logically, Olivia knew that her son hadn't forgotten the shoulder injury that sidelined her duties, as a lieutenant and a mother, earlier in the year. But hearing him bring it up on his own and make the connection to Amanda's current injury cut almost as deeply as the knife had. Her boy had finally begun to suspect that she was a mere mortal—and one whose job was dangerous. She couldn't recall exactly when she'd realized her mother's frequent hospital visits were alcohol-related, but she vividly remembered how anxious she had become whenever Serena was out of her sight. She hated the thought of her children ever feeling that way when their mothers left for work.

"Yeah, sweetheart, you're right," she said, smiling sadly back at him. They were stopped at a red light, and she turned the smile on Matilda and Jesse for a moment as well. "I'm afraid you girls will just have to settle for my lap and for me picking you up until Mama's better. That okay with you?"

"Mommy hold me," Matilda agreed, reaching out from her car seat. She contented herself by holding onto the hand Olivia stretched back to her.

Jesse was harder to convince. "Will you fly us like airplanes? And give us piggyback rides like Mama does?"

"Sure will. If that's what makes you happy, Jesse girl." It had been easy enough for Olivia to accept her role as caregiver and nurturer to the kids when their family gained its two newest members (three, counting Frannie). She was used to that, and she liked being the one her children turned to for comfort. But it also meant Amanda got to be the fun mommy, the one they laughed with and invited into their games and secret childish world, with its own set of rules, practically its own language. Sometimes, just briefly, Olivia felt like the interloper in the group.

"Okay," Jesse said, after giving it some thought. She clasped her tiny hand around Olivia's fingers, leaving the thumb for Matilda. "I like it when you hold me, Mommy. Your boobies are big. I can sleep on them."

For the first time since that awful day at the bank, Olivia wanted to laugh—and she did. She tossed her head back and cackled all the way through the green light, much to her children's amusement. They joined in with her, egged on by an impromptu singsong of "big boobies, big boobies!" from Jesse. ("Ig oobies," echoed Matilda, happy as could be. Poor Noah's cheeks were on fire, even as he giggled.)

Later, Olivia would need to have a little talk with Miss Jess about discussing female anatomy in front of boys. But for now, she chuckled and said, "Oh, honey, you are your mama's daughter."

**. . .**

"Well," said the blurry form above her. "Hi there."

Amanda recognized the voice, rich and warm as a cup of black coffee, before she brought the pretty face into focus. Dark hair, dark eyes, gorgeous smile. "Liv," she said, her own voice sounding like one of the bullfrogs she used to try to catch barehanded in the creeks of Loganville. She cleared her dry throat and returned the smile, blinking drowsily. Her brain felt sluggish and dull, as if she had napped for too long. Possibly decades. "Hey. You just get home?"

"Oh, only about four hours ago." Olivia sat on the edge of the bed, stroking the hair back from Amanda's face. She traced her thumb along the curve of one cheekbone, her features soft with love and sympathy. "You've been out for quite a while, sweetheart. We didn't want to wake you."

"Four hours ago," Amanda said, incredulous. The room did seem darker than it had when her mother brought in the chicken and dumplings, but it was hard to tell behind the curtains. She tried to sit up, cringed, and dropped back with a sigh. "What time is it?"

Olivia checked her watch, squinting at the dial. She reached for the spare glasses on the nightstand and slid them on, then squinted some more. "Nine fifteen," she said after a long pause, during which she fiddled with her ring and tapped her watch band several times, eyeing Amanda. "According to my watch."

"PM?" A little of the fog had cleared from Amanda's brain, but not much. She couldn't figure out why Olivia's left hand kept striking poses like it was a hand model on the Home Shopping Network. "Holy crap. You shoulda woke me up sooner. Kids are probably in bed already."

Giving a small sigh of laughter, Olivia shook her head. The hand she'd been waving around came to rest on Amanda's chest. "I let them stay up to say goodnight. And I'll let you tell them they can skip school tomorrow. I already called Fin to say I wouldn't be coming in unless it's absolutely necessary. Figured we could all use a day for just us. Just family."

"Plus my mother." Amanda pretended to strangle herself with both hands, then dropped one on top of Olivia's, rubbing the back with her palm. She realized a few things all at once. "Oh my God, you're wearing your ring. And your watch. And . . . some kind of bandage?"

She drew back quickly when Olivia winced at her probing fingers. There was indeed a piece of white gauze folded over the crook of Olivia's thumb and held in place with medical tape. It took a moment for Amanda to remember the conversation with her mother about Olivia cutting herself. Something about slicing dumplings.

"What happened here?" she asked, taking the captain gently by her wrist to examine the bandage. She had heard Beth Anne's side of the story, now she wanted the truth.

"Nothing you need to worry about." Olivia tried to slip free of the loose grasp, but Amanda didn't let go—of her wrist or the question. "It was a stupid accident. I was helping your mom make the dumplings, the knife slipped, I cut my hand. It wouldn't stop bleeding, so I went and had it stitched up. That's all."

"You had to get stitches?" Amanda frowned, turning the hand over on her chest and smoothing out the palm. She continued to stroke it when Olivia visibly relaxed and didn't attempt to pull away anymore. "How many?"

"Only three."

"That it? I got you beat by a mile this time, city girl," Amanda teased, tickling Olivia's palm with her fingertips. She wished she had left out the part about "this time," with all its connotations about past injuries, but Olivia didn't seem to notice. In fact, she was smiling and shaking her head at Amanda's competitiveness.

"Did you get shot just to top my surgery?" she asked, giving a little wink. "I knew you liked to win, but this is really going too far."

"Aw, you caught me." Amanda flashed a grin, keeping up the lighthearted mood in the hopes that her next question would be well-received. Probably not, but it was worth a shot. (Har har.) "So, did anything else happen when you cut your hand? Did you . . . I dunno, get distracted by something?"

Olivia's fingers twitched, her body tensing again. She turned her face away slightly, gazing down at a wary angle. "Like what?"

"Well . . . " After an intense struggle that didn't produce much movement but did produce a whole hell of a lot of pain, Amanda—with a boost from her fiancée—sat up. She sank back against the headboard, huffing and puffing. "My mom told me how you reacted. Not wanting to be touched, your eyes going blank. It sounds like maybe you were having a flashback? That's . . . kinda what you do. When it happens."

It would have been better to wait until she was fully awake and not on pain medication before bringing this up, Amanda realized too late. She'd never told Olivia about that emptiness in her eyes when she zoned out; she hadn't wanted to frighten her. But worse than the fear was the embarrassment and shame on the captain's face now.

"She told you that?" Though Olivia didn't pull back physically, she still retreated somehow. When she couldn't get away on the outside, she often escaped to the in. Amanda didn't like to think about how and when she had learned to do that. And it didn't seem fair (or possible) to try and follow. "That I had a flashback?"

"Not in those exact words. She just mentioned how you looked, what you said. I put two and two together." Amanda tapped a fingertip to her temple, hoping to coax some more humor from Olivia. Anything besides that deeply troubled expression. "It's my job and I'm pretty damn good at it. Or so my boss tells me."

But the smile didn't come. In fact, Olivia didn't appear to be listening. "You didn't—" She hesitated, licking her lips several times before going on. It was one of her tells. She was choosing her words carefully, uncertain how to proceed. "You didn't tell her about the PTSD, did you? That I . . . have it."

"'Course not," Amanda said automatically, adamantly, without stopping to consider the question. To be honest, it hurt a little that Olivia would even ask it. She'd thought they were past their trust issues, especially since that night in the Catskills when Olivia had confided her most painful, most well-kept secrets to Amanda. And yet, the captain still thought she would go blabbing to her mother the first chance she got.

Then Amanda realized the truth. She _had_ blabbed to her mother. She might not have spoken the actual words "post-traumatic stress disorder," but she had brought up triggers and made a fuss about checking in on Olivia. She hated to admit it, but a good chunk of her gift for deduction—that ability to put two and two together she'd just bragged about—came from her mother. Beth Anne now knew something was amiss, and thanks to Amanda's big mouth, she also knew Olivia's mother had been an abusive drunk. Direct reference to PTSD or not, it was much too close for comfort.

What was that you were saying about trust, Detective Rollins?

Amanda couldn't bring herself to admit it out loud, though. Not when she still might be able to mitigate the damage. She couldn't take back what her mother had found out, but she could muddy the waters enough that Beth Anne wouldn't know the truth from fiction. Lying, after all, was her forte.

"Why would you ask me that?" she questioned now, studying Olivia. (Muddyin' those waters.) "Thought you trusted me more than that, darlin'."

"I do," Olivia said resolutely. She closed her eyes for a moment, appearing to gather herself, then nodded with even more conviction. "Of course I do. It's just . . . your mother said some things while I was helping in the kitchen. And— I don't know, I got paranoid. I shouldn't have brought it up, I'm sorry."

Olivia made to stand up from the bed, but Amanda put a hand on her knee, encouraging her to remain seated. "First of all, don't believe a damn word that comes out of that woman's mouth," she said, and gave the knee a small shake, as if that would drive the point home. "And second, what the hell did she say to you?"

"Amanda, let's not—"

"She tell you what a screw-up I am? How I can't commit to anything." Amanda gazed down at the engagement ring on Olivia's finger, overwhelmed by a sudden, profound sadness. It was tainted now, that ring. She knew how easily an everyday item could become associated with a traumatic event. For her, it was damask bedspreads like the one she'd been raped on, and the smell of her daddy's Old Spice cologne; for Olivia, it was the vodka her mother had subsisted on and William Lewis had doused her in, it was the song he sang while sexually assaulting her.

' _Cause I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, and I'm a sinner . . ._

And those were just the ones Amanda knew about. What would the ring she'd put so much thought and care into choosing be associated with, now? Certainly not love, happiness, and safety.

"Can't commit to anyone," she added, her throat burning from the emotion she swallowed, sinuses prickling with unshed tears.

"Hey." Olivia took her gently by the chin, lifting it until Amanda met her eye. "She didn't say anything of the sort. And even if she had, I wouldn't have believed her. I know you better than that, my love. I know your heart."

The captain pressed her palm to Amanda's chest, directly over the heart she spoke of. Amanda curled her own hand around that, summoning a wan smile. She was sure what Olivia had said was true; even when all the rest were lies, that voice—the voice that belonged to the woman she was going to marry, the woman with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life—was the one place she could always find honesty, find her center. "Yeah, you do." She squeezed Olivia's fingers lightly, conveying her sincerity and affection. But she still hadn't gotten an answer. "What'd she say to you?"

Olivia gave a reluctant sigh, stalling for a few moments more. She toyed with the necklace Amanda was wearing—the little lighthouse charm she had presented to Amanda on her birthday, and which hadn't been taken off since—batting it idly with her fingertip. Her hands weren't as anxious as they used to be, but sometimes they still had a mind of their own. Finally, pinching the charm between her thumb and forefinger and appraising it up close, she confessed as if someone inside the lighthouse might be listening: "She said you told her I'm just a bleeding heart, with blinders on to how the world works."

A labored blink brought her back to the conversation, and she let the necklace trail from her fingers and land against the collar of Amanda's sweatshirt. She wasn't crying or struggling not to, but her eyes were shinier than they had been a moment ago. She looked up at Amanda hopefully, wanting to hear that it was just another of Beth Anne's lies. It was written all over her face, what she wanted.

But the truth was, Amanda probably had said something like that at one point or another. She didn't remember using those exact words, but the sentiment sounded a bit like her. Though not recently, she had vented to her mother once or twice over the phone about her coworker and eventual boss. The first time had been early on, when Amanda first transferred up from Atlanta. Before she had the slightest clue what the tall brunette detective who didn't know Georgia from Texas was all about. And the last time was during that six month stint when she and Olivia were on the outs after the brothel shooting. She now knew any comments she'd made about Olivia back then had been influenced by repressed feelings and fear. Fear that she was losing the person she cared about most, other than her child. It was the same fear that had led Olivia to push her away in the first place.

That was almost a year and a half ago. Had her mother actually recalled verbatim a complaint Amanda made back then, or was she just trying to stir the pot (her favorite pastime)? Whatever the case might be, it pissed Amanda off. Beth Anne had no business coming into her home and meddling with her engagement. She had no business telling Olivia those things, whether they were repeated or not.

"Son of a bitch. You see why I didn't want her here?" Amanda sat forward and pointed two fingers at the bedroom door, pain momentarily forgotten. Scratch that—poisonous snakes were slithering in her belly, striking with sharp fangs, fiery venom. But they were no match for the anger coursing through her veins. "This is what she does. Goes around whispering her little secrets in people's ears and causin' trouble, then wonders why no one can stand her. I'm gonna tell her to leave. Get her in here for me, wouldja?"

"Hang on. Let's not make that decision right now, okay?" Olivia caught Amanda gently by the shoulders, easing her back towards the headboard and pillows. She cupped her injured hand around Amanda's irate, pointing one, probably knowing full well it wouldn't be jerked away—not at the risk of hurting her. Whether intentional or not, she could overpower with even the simplest of gestures. "I know she's difficult—"

"You can say 'bitch.'"

"—but it's nine o'clock at night and about fifteen degrees outside. Plus, Christmas is in a few weeks." Olivia tried to rub her thumb across Amanda's knuckles, but grimaced and laced their fingers loosely together at the top instead. "How about we don't toss her out in the snow just yet? Maybe sleep on it and see how we feel in the morning?"

Too tired for arguing and the energy it would take to list all the reasons why waiting was a bad idea, Amanda relented with a sigh. "Fine, but she's not staying till Christmas. That's asking too much."

There was a long silence when she didn't specify who it was that would be asking too much of her—Olivia or Beth Anne. After a while, Olivia peered at her with a look that might have been uncertainty, though it was hard to recognize on someone who so rarely lost her way. "You didn't really give me an answer," she said softly, pressing without pressing.

Amanda decided not to insult Olivia's intelligence—or ability to read her like an open book—by pretending she'd forgotten the question. Her brain was too foggy to come up with a convincing lie, but she proceeded carefully nonetheless, trying to avoid pitfalls and bruised feelings. "I don't think I ever said . . . that. Mama likes to twist things. I might have said you believe the victims a lot easier than I do sometimes. And that you fight for people, even when you know it's a losing battle. But baby, those aren't bad things. Those are things I love about you."

It was a bit misleading, but even if she hadn't meant the observations as a compliment when she originally spoke about them, she meant it now. And now was all that mattered.

Olivia appeared to be in agreement, her smile returning, if somewhat weaker and more tinged with sadness than before. She gave a short little nod and studied their joined hands. There were a few false starts before she finally admitted, "I did have a flashback. It was just for a split-second when I cut my hand, but . . . "

"Tell me," Amanda said, rather boldly. She should have asked if Olivia felt like sharing the details, instead of assuming she would right off the bat—that was the quickest way to make the captain clam up. But they had developed a kind of shorthand in the past year, when it came to Olivia opening up about what was bothering her; with a little encouragement and prompting, she had even started making her wants and needs known more often. Amanda held her breath, hoping she hadn't set their progress back too far (or destroyed it altogether) with her big damn mouth. Just like her mama.

"It took me back to the warehouse. Cutting my hand with your knife." Olivia opened the palm of that hand wide, fingers hyperextended, and gazed at the caterpillar-shaped scar inside of it. Her eyes, though not quite glassy, were far away, along with the hushed tone she'd slipped into. "Calvin. I could feel— when Beth Anne touched me, I thought . . . it _felt_ like him."

"Yeah, she has that effect on people," Amanda said, then cringed inwardly at her own stupidity. Her fiancée needed tenderness and understanding, not more of her bitter feelings and petty comments about Beth Anne. She brought Olivia's palm to her lips and absently kissed the scar, a habit whose origin she couldn't remember but also didn't wish to break. "Sorry. That sounds awful, darlin'. I wish you'd woken me up when that happened, or at least called me back so I could—"

"I did call you back." A brittle edge in Olivia's voice warned that she was getting defensive. The tension hadn't returned to her frame, posture and limbs still fairly at ease, so she hadn't put up any physical walls just yet. She was still reachable. "Just a few minutes after I missed your call. Your mother answered and said you were asleep."

"Goddammit, I told her to wake me up as soon as you called. That's it." Furious all over again, Amanda rounded her thumb and index finger, pushed her tongue in with the resultant circle, and prepared to expel a shrill whistle. In the end, a touch from Olivia—and the realization that she'd have to use her stomach muscles to force out enough air—stayed her hand and her tongue.

"It's my fault. I asked her not to disturb you. She offered to—"

"Stop defending her. She's going to a hotel tomorrow and that's all there is to it. Don't fight me on this, Liv," Amanda said, overwhelmed by a sudden desperation. She inexplicably felt like sobbing. Her children sometimes flicked that emotional switch, going from neutral to tearful for reasons so small it was almost laughable.

Her children sometimes did, but not Amanda.

"I'll go crazy if she stays here," she whispered, not daring to raise her voice and hear it crack. If that happened, she would be a goner, and she did not want to cry over her damn mother in front of Olivia. Especially when she didn't exactly know why she was so upset.

"Okay. Okay. I'll tell her she has to go first thing tomorrow." Olivia ducked down to catch Amanda's eye, her forehead crinkled in concern. When she saw the tears threatening to spill over, she quickly wrapped Amanda in a warm and gentle embrace. "Oh, sweetheart. You're so exhausted, aren't you? Your little body's been through so much. How about we get the kids in here and tell them goodnight, then you can rest some more? I'll lie down with you."

Amanda was crying too hard to respond. The hug had done it. The hug and Olivia's soft tone and even softer caress, the latter gliding up and down her back, telling her it was okay to let go. She buried her face in the crook of Olivia's neck and sobbed as heartily as her tight, inflamed belly would allow.

It didn't last long, the pain and her embarrassment at bawling like a damn girl sobering her up fast. Olivia was probably the only person she had ever been secure enough to cry in front of that way, but it still felt unnatural and overly dramatic. Weeping was for other people. People such as Olivia, with big emotions they weren't afraid to express. Amanda would deny it if asked, but that was how she liked it—Olivia crying to her, needing _her_. There was something familiar and irresistible in being the protector.

"Yeah, that'd be good," she said against the captain's shoulder, looping an arm around to swipe at her tears before she sat back. "Kids. Rest. You."

"Did you eat any supper?" Olivia asked, thumbing away some of the leftover moisture Amanda had missed. She dried her hands on the bedspread, briefly frowning down at them as if they displeased her. She adjusted the watch on her wrist, turning the face from inside to out.

"I ate a few bites of chicken and dumplings and Mama's cornbread, but she was drivin' me up the wall and I lost my appetite." Amanda made a face that largely consisted of curling her lip in disgust. It opened up her sinuses and she sniffed a few times, then dragged a sleeve under her running nose. Another downside of crying was the snot. "I might could go for some now, though. If you were to insist."

"Oh, I most certainly do insist," Olivia said with a chuckle. She reached for the box of Kleenex at the bottom of the nightstand, under the drawer with their small cache of sex toys inside, and skimmed a tissue off the top. She flapped it lightly at Amanda, pinched between her index and middle fingers. "I'll heat some up while you visit with the babies. Ask Jesse about the song she wrote for me. You'll love it."

"Uh-oh." Amanda accepted the tissue and immediately cast it aside when she caught a glimpse of Olivia's watch. "Hold up," she said, grabbing for the captain's retreating wrist. She brought it back for a closer look, and sure enough, a deep crack skittered outward from a notch at the center of the crystal facing. It looked like someone had taken an ice pick to the thick glass. "What happened to your watch?"

"Oh, um, I'm not sure." Gradually, Olivia eased out of the grip and shrugged. She didn't examine the Breitling or the blemish on its once perfect surface. Instead, she tucked it behind her thigh, well out of view. "Kat brought my stuff by while I was picking up the kids. I didn't get to talk to her, but your mom did. She didn't mention the watch. I guess it got smashed during the scuffle at the bank or while it was in evidence. You know how careless they are. It's not that big a deal. In fact . . . "

Lifting her hand, she began to unbuckle the band from around her wrist. "It's about time I retired this thing, anyway. It's been on the job as long as I have. If I had to end up with a bum ticker late in my career, I'm glad it was this and not the real one."

"But—" Amanda put a hand over the watch, trying to stop or at least postpone its removal, but Olivia was already slipping it off. She placed it face down on her thigh, palm covering the inscription on the back. "Baby, your mama gave you that. It's important to you. You should keep wearin' it. I bet we can find someplace to get it fixed."

Olivia rose from the side of the bed and walked the Breitling over to her tall mahogany dresser. She deposited the watch in the top drawer, right where she had put the earrings from Alex. "It would cost a fortune to have it fixed," she said, nudging the drawer shut with her shoulder. "We can't afford that right now, with Christmas just around the corner. Maybe later next year when my new bride and I are enjoying wedded and financial bliss."

A faint smile gracing her lips, she returned to drop a kiss on top of Amanda's head. "Besides, I got the most important things returned to me in one piece." She waggled her ring finger at Amanda, flashing the engagement band, then smoothed down her hair with the same hand and delivered another kiss. "Well, more or less. One of them has a hole in it."

The captain was deflecting, and normally Amanda would call her on it. But she had a bad feeling. Two, actually. The first had to do with her mother being in possession of the watch before Olivia got home (she wouldn't . . . would she?), and the second had to do with the fresh pain hatching in her gut like a nest of gator eggs. All those tiny sharp teeth gnashing to be let free.

"Ha ha," she said weakly, and grimaced. "Hey, can you bring me a pain pill with that food? Belly's hurtin'."

"Of course, love." Olivia edged towards the door, as if she were reluctant to leave the room. She hesitated with her hand on the knob, an anxious look on her face. "What do you want to drink?"

"Still got some of that Maker's Mark left, don't we?" Amanda's grin was a bit tighter than she meant it to be, but she managed a flirty wink nevertheless. They had created some fond memories over that particular bottle of bourbon one adventurous night last November. Or rather, their alter egos Jo and Maggie had. "Make it a whiskey, Mags. Straight up."

The joke did its part, easing some of Olivia's tension. She slid into character readily with a saucy little smile. "Nice try, doll. Water it is. And keep your pants on."

She unleashed the kids on Amanda a moment later, calling out reminders for them to be gentle and not bounce on the bed. Jesse, somehow always leading the pack, burst forward and announced, "Wanna hear the song I made for Mommy, Mama?" Olivia's laughter could be heard trailing down the hall as Jesse started singing about big boobies at the top of her lungs.

**. . .**


	16. Chapter 15: A Secret Chord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to get this posted before dinnertime, but I've been a little under the weather today and missed the deadline. Sorry about that. I'm glad the Rolivia kids were a hit in the last update. It's a lot of fun when they show up—more of that to come in a few of the chapters ahead. Look out for another special guest in this chapter. I think there's a small constituency who will be pleased, or at least intrigued, but... we'll see. Lemme know what you think.

* * *

Now, I've heard there was a secret chord  
That David played and it pleased the Lord  
But you don't really care for music, do ya?  
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth  
The minor fall, the major lift  
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

\- Leonard Cohen, "Hallelujah"

* * *

## CHAPTER 15: A Secret Chord

**. . .**

If Olivia had to listen to Mariah Carey's breathy, high-pitched runs and riffs about all she wanted for Christmas one more goddamn time, there was going to be a hostage situation. ( _Crazed NYPD Captain Has Meltdown at Mall_ , the headlines would read in tomorrow's paper.)

She cast a guilty look at Amanda the moment the thought formed, but the blonde was lost in her phone, scrolling through some social media app or another. Olivia studied her carefully, on alert for signs that she was overexerting herself; other than the rosy cheeks, which they both had, there were none. It was sweltering inside the store. Olivia had removed her coat when they got there half an hour ago, and she'd even persuaded Amanda to hand over hers for carrying. But the body heat from hundreds of shoppers, combined with the desperation of parents who only had a week and a half left to buy the perfect present(s), made the tightly spaced aisles of the toy store feel like a sauna. Olivia regretted the fleece-lined chambray shirt and corduroy pants she'd chosen. Appropriate for the bone-chilling winter winds outside, not so much for the ninety-degree heat inside.

And that damn song. It had played three times since they arrived at the mall, twice in this store alone. Up till then, Olivia hadn't even known Mariah Carey still existed. Now all she wanted for Christmas was the pop star to go back to the eighties from whence those shrill vocals came. (That, and for Beth Anne Rollins to go back to Georgia.)

She eyed her fiancée again, considering voicing the opinion. Amanda was always amused by her observations on pop culture, sports, and anything else she aggressively didn't give a damn about. But the blonde was still playing with her phone. Before they got into line, she had been almost giddy about shopping for the kids. Some of it might have been the last minute rush—there had seemed to be plenty of time left, prior to the bank robbery and life-threatening injury—but to Olivia, that was more stressful than thrilling.

Amanda's excitement was infectious, though. Only a little over a week ago, she had gotten shot and almost died; tonight, she practically buzzed up and down the aisles (if her stiff, wincing gait could be considered "buzzing"), snapping every Christmas list item she could find off the shelf (as long as it wasn't over five pounds) and plunking it into the cart. Noah was getting the easel and jumbo-sized kit of art supplies he'd begged for over the past two months, Jesse would probably drive them all to drink with her new basketball and boxing gloves, and Matilda could play house to her little heart's content with the lifelike kitchen set and accessories. Olivia had never gone Christmas shopping with someone else before, and it warmed her heart to see the joy it brought Amanda. Anyone who loved spoiling her kids—all three of them—that much was a keeper.

But she was distracted, now that they were waiting in line. Her antsy side had kicked in, one leg jiggling incessantly as inch by inch they crept toward the checkout. And she kept glancing at the exit like she planned to bolt at any second. Olivia had thought it was just their claustrophobic surroundings, the stuffy air that smacked faintly of body odor, the same handful of obnoxious pop songs that actually had nothing to do with Christmas on repeat. Then a mall cop sauntered by the open storefront, hitching his belt up self-importantly, and Olivia realized what was really bothering her fiancée. This was their first big outing since the shooting, and here they were, waiting in a long, slow line, exposed to the public and anyone who might come along and upend—or simply end—their lives. Just like at the bank.

"Feeling okay, sweetheart?" Olivia asked, stroking the side of her pinky finger against Amanda's nearby arm on the shopping cart handle. She waited for Amanda to acknowledge her and the touch before making any further contact, not wanting to startle the blonde from wherever her mind had wandered. Olivia knew that distant expression far too well; she was usually the one wearing it. "You're awfully quiet over there. This isn't getting to be too much for you, is it?"

"Hm?" Amanda looked up and then around the store, as if she had forgotten precisely where she was at that moment. "Oh. Nah, I'm good. Well . . . " She pointed to the disembodied voice in the sky. "I'm fixin' to bitch-slap whoever's in charge of the Muzak, they play this song one more time."

Olivia laughed, nodding in agreement. "My thoughts exactly. Between this and 'Last Christmas,' I've listened to more Mariah Carey and George Michael tonight than I ever did in the eighties and nineties."

"Aw, you weren't a Wham! fan? Not even 'Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go'?" Amanda snapped her fingers and gave her shoulders a little shimmy, pronouncing the title in a cute singsong voice. Without a doubt, she knew every last lyric of the song and could sing it start to finish and in the right key. If the cop thing didn't pan out, a career in the music industry was always an option. "That was my jam in kindergarten."

"Huh-uh. I was all about Prince and Tina Turner back then." Olivia pretended to swoon, fanning lightly at her cheeks. "And Bruce Springsteen, yum. I listened to _Born in the U.S.A._ so much, I practically wore a hole in the record."

Amanda wrinkled her nose, examining Olivia with a critical eye. "Springsteen? Really, that's what does it for ya? All right, well, remind me to wear cutoff sleeves and a bandana next time we . . . y'know." With a glance, she indicated the other shoppers in front of and behind them, many of whom were within earshot. Any other time, she wouldn't have censored herself.

"Whenever that is," she added, with a weary sigh. Over a week without sex was proving to be a challenge for both of them, but especially Amanda. Her mother's continued presence would have killed the mood, regardless of her injury.

Despite repeated hints and a few outright suggestions from Amanda that Beth Anne find a hotel room, the woman had weaseled her way into sleeping on their couch for "just one more night" since that first evening home from the hospital. She didn't want to waste her money—or _theirs_ , she'd said meaningfully, when Olivia offered to pay—on something so expensive, and so close to Christmas, for heaven's sake. It was the same excuse she used for not buying a plane ticket back to Georgia. And besides, wasn't it much nicer having someone around to cook and clean and take care of things while Amanda recuperated and Olivia brought home the bacon?

The first few nights weren't so bad, but now Olivia wanted to kick the busybody out of their apartment too. Beth Anne loved to instigate arguments and drive wedges, even among the children: "I think Jesse might be stronger than you are, Noah." "Matilda looks so pretty in her dresses. Don't you want to be pretty like that, Jesse Eileen?" "Lord, child, where did you get that red hair?"

The comment about bringing home the bacon had been a dig at Amanda, Olivia was sure of it. And the spat they had later that day about when Amanda should return to work and how long desk duty would last only confirmed it. No one had exerted quite so much influence over Olivia's household and relationships since she'd lived with her own mother, and she didn't like it one bit. She did not want to be the one who told Beth Anne to leave, but if things kept up this way, she wasn't sure how much longer she could hold back.

"How's the tummy doing?" she asked Amanda, hoping to get rid of the unpleasant thoughts about her mother-in-law-to-be. She was out with her fiancée, they hadn't had a disagreement in days, and they were going to spoil their kids rotten very soon. She wouldn't let Beth Anne ruin that for her. "It's not hurting you with all this walking and standing, is it?"

"Huh-uh." Amanda shook her head, but her eyes wandered as if she were thinking it over and doubting her answer. She glanced at the blank screen of her cell phone for a moment, leg starting to jiggle. It did that when she was impatient and when she lied. Thankfully, the latter didn't happen too often anymore, at least not with regard to Olivia. "I am gettin' kinda tired though, now that you mention it. Guess I'm not used to being on my feet after sitting around on my fat, lazy ass for a week and a half."

"Oh yes, it's huge," Olivia said dryly, and dropped a hand low on Amanda's hip for an affectionate pat. "I don't know how you live with yourself, looking like you do. Why don't you go wait in the car and let me stand in this long-ass line so I don't have to stare at your hideousness anymore?"

Amanda grinned, showing off some dimple, and stole a quick kiss on the lips from Olivia, onlookers be damned. She tilted her head just a bit when she stepped back, gazing up from beneath a pale sweep of bangs. "You sure?" she asked, blue eyes wide and imploring. She was turning on the charm, that much was obvious. "I can stick around and . . . watch you lift the heavy stuff, if you need me to."

"Thanks, you're a real peach." Olivia smirked at the reaction to her little quip—Amanda's tongue darted out and back in so quickly, she probably could have snagged a fly in midair—and shooed the blonde off with a wave. "Go. I got this. Turn on the heat so I don't come out and find a giant peach-flavored Popsicle where my fiancée should be. Here, love, don't forget your coat."

Backtracking a few steps, Amanda grabbed the leather bomber jacket she had almost walked off and left folded in the baby seat of the shopping cart. It wasn't her warmest winter attire, but her best coat now sported a bullet hole and a bloodstain the size of a dinner plate in its lining.

"Thanks, babe. Call if you need anything." She patted the pocket of her loose-fitting joggers. Denim waistbands were still too tight and restrictive just yet. She looked a bit like a ponytailed street tough in the hooded bomber, baggy pants and Nike high tops, but Olivia found herself smitten all the same. "See ya out there."

"Keys," Olivia called, and pitched the pink butterfly teether that served as her key ring to Amanda when she pivoted and put up her hands. The detective caught the unwieldy projectile as smoothly as any pop-up ball and flashed another wide smile before disappearing into the crowded mall proper.

Olivia's own smile faded as she watched the blonde ponytail be consumed by the holiday throng. She got the distinct impression that Amanda had been lying to her after all, but why or what about, she couldn't determine. The more she thought it over, the worse her imagination distorted the possibilities, until she was so distracted she barely heard her cell phone ringing in the cart.

Another chorus of the "Flower Duet" from _Lakmé_ drifted up from inside her purse, alerting her to the caller's identity before she even located the phone. It seemed like another lifetime ago that she and Alexandra Cabot had attended Delibes' opera together, both of them moved to tears by the angelic harmonies of the soprano and mezzo-soprano who performed the duet. Afterwards, during the cab ride home, Alex had reached over in the dark, plucked Olivia's phone from her hand, fiddled with it for several moments, then returned it without a word. Only later, when Alex called to say she had made it safely to her apartment, did Olivia find—or rather, hear—the surprise: the ADA's calls were now heralded by the melody that had so swept them away on its enchanted wings.

Since that evening, Olivia hadn't the heart to change the ringtone. Until very recently, she'd seen no reason why she should. But as she finally unearthed the cell from under her wallet and a travel pack of baby wipes she kept on-hand for the kids, she felt relieved that Amanda wasn't there to hear the song or see the name attached to it. The vocals were entirely in French, and the detective tuned out opera like she had an aural immunity to the genre, but Olivia didn't want to chance being asked about that evening out at the theatre. That evening she had almost invited Alex up to her apartment afterwards, for a nightcap and . . .

Making a mental note to assign a new ringtone to her old friend, Olivia accepted the call, swept her hair aside, and tried to smile as she answered.

"Hi, Alex."

They hadn't spoken over the phone since that night back in November when Olivia announced her engagement, and instead of congratulations, received a lecture about intimate partner violence and the probability of Amanda being violent herself. Olivia had hung up on Alex for that one, and didn't hear anything more from her until the earrings arrived. A texted "thank you," an apology sent to Olivia's personal email, and a couple of voicemails that rambled on far too long were their only communication since. But then:

"Hey, Liv."

The pause lasted several seconds. It was enough time for Olivia to contemplate hanging up and going about her life like she'd never gotten the call at all. It probably would have been the smart thing to do. But she also had time to replay the good memories with Alex—fighting side by side for that which was undeniably right, inexorably true; late night Chinese takeout and playful bickering about who got the last egg roll; giggling behind their hands at the uncoordinated adults on the rink, but not daring to strap on ice skates themselves; deep conversations over sweet, creamy cappuccino or one too many glasses of wine.

What kind of friend would she be if she ignored the woman who—in some small part, at least—helped make her the cop she was today? What kind of person? She had told her brother not to call her anymore, and it was the last thing he heard before he died. She couldn't do that to Alex, not even to appease Amanda.

"Is this a bad time? It sounds like you're busy."

Olivia glanced at the line ahead, though she knew it hadn't moved. There were no fewer than fifteen people in front of her, much as there had been for the past twenty minutes. She was going to be here awhile. And it was still hotter than Hades. "I'm Christmas shopping for the kids, but the line practically stretches all the way to Schenectady," she said, flapping the collar of her chambray shirt. "If you don't mind the background noise, I'm free to talk for a bit."

"I don't mind." It sounded like Alex had smiled when she spoke, but a lengthy silence immediately followed and the tension was almost as palpable as the heat. Finally, in a voice much too forced for casual small talk, she asked, "How are they? Your children."

There was a hesitation before the word "children" that struck Olivia as odd, but she might have misheard. Between the chatter of her fellow shoppers, electronic blips from the checkout area, John and Yoko warbling about the war being over (slightly less irksome than Christmas pop ballads, still not something Olivia wished to listen to), and the din from the outer mall, it was difficult to make out certain nuances over the phone. Especially without seeing Alex's face.

"They're doing well. Excited for Santa to come." Olivia pressed her ear shut with the hand not holding the phone. "I think this might be Noah's last year believing in him. He keeps asking how Santa can get into our apartment, without a chimney to slide down. Then he asked if that was breaking and entering."

Alex laughed this time, and Olivia instantly felt more at ease. There hadn't been much cause for humor when they worked together, at least not during business hours, but she had always enjoyed making Alex laugh and was delighted to find that she did it very well. When they weren't at each other's throats, that was.

"Like mother, like son," said Alex, softly, maybe a little fondly. It really was difficult to tell over the sound system and the children's chorus of "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)." After a moment, she added, "I can't believe he's seven years old. I bet he's getting so big. And I haven't even met your baby. She's almost three now, right?"

It didn't come as much of a surprise that Alex had kept track of the children's ages. She had never forgotten Olivia's birthday since those early years at SVU, when they were young, idealistic crusaders for the same cause, not a gray hair or an ounce of fat between them—no attempted hit or repeated sexual assaults, either. Even during the years when Alex was in witness protection, Olivia had received birthday cards signed by someone named Emily, whose penmanship bore a strong resemblance to a lawyer's and whose envelopes never included a return address.

"He is getting big. He's the tallest boy in his dance class," Olivia said, unable to contain her pride. Height didn't matter, especially at age seven, before puberty and growth spurts and all the joys of adolescence that she and her son had to look forward to. But it pleased her nonetheless that he showed signs of being a tall adult. Just like she was. "Tilly will be three in June. She's the sweetest little thing, Alex. You would love her."

"I'm sure of it."

"Jesse turned five on Thanksgiving." Olivia fiddled with the straps of her shoulder bag, looping them in and out of each other as she tried to determine what the reaction had been on the opposite end. She didn't want to bring up reminders of their last phone call so soon into this one, but Jesse was her child now too, Amanda her fiancée. If Alex wanted to be a part of her life, she better get used to that. "She's a pistol, just like her mama. And so funny."

Alex took a drink of something, her ring clinking the glass, her lips releasing a faint liquid smack. It was too early to be drinking. Then again, maybe it was only water. "You've got your hands full," she said, giving no indication whether she meant it as a good or a bad thing. Or to whom she referred, Jesse or Amanda. "You sound happy."

Although a simple comment and a bit cliché, Olivia was struck by it. She couldn't remember the last time someone had said that to her—if anyone ever had. She wasn't a completely cheerless person, but her work often took a toll on her mood. No one wanted to see a smiling sex crimes cop or hear laughter ringing through the halls of SVU. No one would smile or laugh after seeing the things she saw day in and day out. It had taken years to learn how to separate work from her personal life, how not to take it home with her. Then it had walked through her front door, tied her to a chair, and violated her in ways she hadn't known were possible.

After that, happiness seemed unattainable. It felt like a chore. Something she had to work at; to make herself do, lest she forget how. Calvin and Amelia might have succeeded in snuffing out joy altogether, were it not for the unexpected gifts they brought into her life—her daughter Matilda, who was absolute joy personified, and the strengthened bond between herself and Amanda. Even in her bleakest moments, they were there, stars shining brightly in her dark and dismal night.

It occurred to Olivia then, and she couldn't believe how long it had taken to recognize the feeling: she _was_ happy. In spite of everything that had happened in the past year, all the struggles and relapses, the relationship missteps and professional highs and lows—and yes, even in spite of that nightmare in the Catskills and the most recent one, at the bank—she was happier now than she had ever been. She had a family for the first time in her life; she had a partner whom she didn't want to push away for fear that they would reject her first and leave her more broken than she was already. She had love, given and received without condition.

"I am. Happy," she said, and though the words felt foreign on her tongue, they were meant wholeheartedly. Tears shimmered in her vision, turning the festive decorations that adorned every inch of the store into a kaleidoscope of Christmas colors, but she didn't shed them. They weren't heavy enough to fall. "Truly."

"That's . . . " Alex cleared her throat. It was a prim, barely audible noise, something you would hear at a garden party or the ballet. Over a cup of loose leaf tea, little silver spoons tinkling against bone china.

Other than Alex, Olivia had never met anyone who liked all of those things—the soirées, the swanlike ballerinas in their gossamer tutus, or the artisan tea in cups so fragile they almost crumbled beneath your fingers. At one time, Alex's love of pretty things was charming and romantic. She had seemed to Olivia as delicate as the bone china itself. Now she framed people for murders they didn't commit.

"That's wonderful, Liv. I'm glad to hear it. You deserve to be happy." She at least sounded sincere about the last part. The beginning and middle were harder to decipher. Her ring kept tapping the glass whenever she took a sip. "You've waited a long time to find the right person. I only wish you could've found her sooner. Amanda, I mean."

The longer Olivia listened, the more convinced she became that Alex was drinking something stronger than water. There was a looseness to her phrasing that didn't match up with the attorney's eloquent, almost regal way of speaking. That had always been Olivia's first clue that her mother would be soused before the night ended. The vague elongation of consonants and dropped vowels, the odd contraction here or there. Years of alcohol abuse had ravaged the English professor's vocal cords, leaving her with a permanent rasp, but through most of Olivia's childhood she'd had a clear, articulate voice, much like Alex Cabot's. It had been a lecturer's voice, powerful and commanding attention. When it drunk dialed Olivia at 2 AM to cry and apologize, or to scream obscenities and blame, she felt as defenseless and alone as she had at eight years old, hiding under her bed while Serena raged outside the locked bedroom.

"Why did you call, Alex?" she asked, though not unkindly. She missed talking to her friend. There was a time when she could count on the attorney to shoot straight with her, even more than her old partner had. Before feelings got in the way—for any of them. "I know it's not to talk about my kids. Or Amanda."

A high, hollow note rang out on Alex's end. She was tracing her finger along the brim of her wine glass, making it sing. Olivia had seen her do it, idly and lost in thought, on many occasions. Sometimes, Olivia caught herself doing the same thing. Alex, who could play "Clair de Lune" just as well on wine glasses as the piano, was the one who had taught her the nifty trick.

"No," Alex finally said. The ringing stopped. "You're right, that's not why I called. I suppose . . . I suppose I just wanted to hear your voice. It's been too long. And you were angry with me last time we spoke. Granted, it was my fault, but I—" She sighed heavily into the microphone. "Oh, Liv, I hate that we ended things on bad terms. I'm so sorry for upsetting you. I only wanted to know that you're safe. And that she realizes how extraordinary you are. Can you forgive me? Please. I . . . miss you."

The desperation and sadness coming through the phone took Olivia by surprise, and for a moment, she was at a loss for words. She didn't recall ever hearing Alex so impassioned anywhere outside of a courtroom or one of their offices, during a high stakes case. But there was something else that Olivia recognized, if only from personal experience with the emotion—a deep, overwhelming loneliness.

She felt guilty that she hadn't noticed it before. It hadn't even occurred to her that the ADA's dramatic career change might be due in part to that isolation she'd grown used to in witness protection. Alex's mother had died while she was in hiding; she had to leave behind all of her friends, who moved on with their lives; she formed no close attachments under her assumed names, hadn't allowed herself to. Olivia had done it for a few months as Persephone James, but Alex did it for years. Years of killing the real Alexandra Cabot, day by day. No wonder she lost sight of who she had been. No wonder she couldn't bear to lose another friend.

"Of course I forgive you," Olivia said with complete sincerity. One thing she had learned at a young age, for better or for worse, was how to excuse even the most hurtful comments being slung at her. When they came from your own mother—and you were just three, four, five years old—there was no choice but to buck up and take it like a pro. And when Mommy cried, begged pardon, and promised to never do it again, you gave it. You believed her. "Of course. I appreciate that you were trying to look out for me, I do. But I need you to trust that I can take care of myself and that I know what's best for me."

"Meaning Amanda?"

"Yes, Alex. Meaning Amanda." Olivia kept a level tone, though the question bothered her. Not only did it suggest her fiancée wasn't the right choice, it reminded her of the comments Alex had made about Elliot Stabler during their last ill-fated phone call—that she had let her former partner somehow mistreat her, that she was blind to what everyone else could see. (Like she had blinders on to the way the world worked . . .)

"The woman I'm about to marry," she said. "The woman I love. I know you're not fond of her for whatever reason, but she's important to me. If you can't accept that, accept _her_ , then maybe we shouldn't—"

"I can." Alex set her glass down on a hard surface. Even over the phone, her expression was discernible. Rounded lips, blue eyes wide behind square-rimmed glasses. She was adamant, ready to make her case. "I do. I'm sorry, I don't know why I asked that. It's the lawyer coming out in me. If I didn't question everything people said to me, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

Olivia allowed herself a small laugh at that one. She knew enough lawyers to confirm it was true. They always asked too many questions and were convinced they already knew all the answers. Though the explanation made her feel a little better, she still kept her guard up. "Hey, I'm a cop. I get it. But I hope you know me well enough by now to take my word for it when I say Amanda is an extraordinary person too. And she's been every bit worth the wait. When I thought I was about to lose her last week, I didn't know if I could even keep going. I was so . . . "

There didn't seem to be a word big enough, powerful enough, to describe the fear and devastation she'd felt watching Amanda suffer and bleed and fight to stay alive. She glanced anxiously around the store, suddenly wishing she hadn't let Amanda out of her sight. She couldn't keep her under lock and key, but they should have at least stayed together in the busy mall. Danger always found them; it was only a matter of time till it caught one of them alone, without the other to come to her aid, and then—

"Wait, what? About to lose her in what way?"

The sharp inquiry brought Olivia's spiraling thoughts to a halt, like a stick thrust through the spokes of a wheel. She blinked a few times, reorienting herself, reminding herself to breathe in, out. In, out. "Oh," she said softly, and all at once realized she hadn't told Alex about the shooting yet. "Oh my God, I didn't tell you. Last week we were at the bank when it was robbed. Female perp and three men. Four, counting the getaway driver. They held us at gunpoint, and when Amanda tried to protect me, the girl shot her in the stomach. The blood, Alex . . . I don't know how she lost so much and still survived."

Alex's gasp was a bit delayed, but appropriately horrified. "Oh God, Liv honey, that's awful. Is she all right?"

"She's better. Bouncing back a lot quicker than I could have." Olivia examined the puckered web of skin beside her thumb, where the stitches had just been removed. The impressions from the thread were still clearly visible, but they were nothing compared to the marks left on Amanda's body. Those, Olivia couldn't abide; Amanda, however, studied them avidly and with a sense of wonder.

The exit wound was healing slowly, a garish and misshapen star beginning to form in the blonde's creamy white flesh. She joked that it matched the scar from the Phillips head screwdriver Orion jammed into her abdomen almost a year ago. _Pert'near an entire constellation by now_ , was her exact conclusion, switching back and forth in front of the bedroom mirror, shirt lifted over her flat little belly. She'd caught Olivia watching from their bed, and turned to the side, stomach distended as far as it could go with the sutures, bandages, and lack of extra space. Until then, Olivia had been hoping the detective had forgotten any mention of a baby. They still hadn't talked about it. With any luck, they never would.

"They did surgery to stop the bleeding. No organ damage, thank God," Olivia said, closing her eyes as if she were actually offering a prayer of thanks. She hadn't spoken to God since that day at the hospital. The anger hadn't gone away, despite Amanda's recovery. "It's a miracle things weren't much worse. She's luckier than anybody I've ever met."

"Yeah, she is." Alex nibbled on something, perhaps a fingernail. No . . . she would never. Her lip, then. "How's her mental state since that happened? And I'm only asking because I remember how shaken up I was for a long while after my shooting. First time in my life I ever had insomnia. And nightmares."

Olivia hadn't known that about Alex, either. It broke her heart to think of her friend, alone in a new city, with a new identity and no one to rely on, no one to help her navigate the PTSD she undoubtedly suffered after almost being murdered and essentially dying, as far as everyone who knew her as Alex Cabot was concerned. Olivia had lain awake at night for months after Alex's relocation, wondering how the attorney was faring. Now she knew.

"I'm sorry, Al," she said, lowering her head and her voice. The music had changed to that soft and drowsy choral from the Charlie Brown cartoon, and even the last-minute madness around her seemed to hush. It was an apology about seventeen years too late. "I didn't realize . . . "

"How could you? I was a thousand miles away." Alex's tone was warm, smiling again. Her cheeks were probably flushed. From the wine, of course. "You haven't called me Al since that night we closed down Bemelmans."

That was true. Olivia had tested out the nickname after testing out one too many cocktails on Alex's tab at the upscale piano bar; they had laughed for a good hour (the booze might have had something to do with it), until Alex finally poured Olivia into a cab, leaving her with a chilling ultimatum: "If you call me that anymore, I'm calling you Ollie."

The name didn't stick, but the memory of that night—the free-flowing wine and giddy laughter, the stolen glances and "accidental" hand touches—had stayed with her all these years. And it had just come flooding back with those two simple letters.

They were headed for dangerous territory, and Olivia needed to steer them back on track. She switched the phone to her other ear, the heat coming off the device making her feel like she was having a hot flash. Or burning in hell. "Sorry, it kind of slipped out."

"Don't be. I don't mind it so much anymore."

After a lame "ah" that Olivia had no follow-up for, she reverted to the topic they were supposed to be discussing. She wasn't one of those girlfriends who couldn't shut up about her partner, but in this case, Alex needed to know there was a line. And Olivia would never cross it.

"Amanda seems to be doing fine. Again, far better than I would, in her position." Olivia had, in fact, had a night terror earlier in the week, but it was so brief and Gigi had woken her up so quickly, Amanda didn't even stir.

Olivia was keeping her eye on the detective, and continued asking after her pain level and mood, though. Thus far, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Perhaps a little more grumpiness than usual, but given the hole in Amanda's gut and the interruption to her work and sex life, that was understandable. She kept complaining of boredom. "She's been shot before. Same place as you, actually. I don't know if that's the difference or not. Probably not, but as a cop it's something you prepare for."

At first, a small, inconclusive hum was the only response. Then: "How are you doing? You saw it happen? That must have been so terrifying and traumatic. Were you hurt?"

It _was_ terrifying and traumatic, and Olivia had worried that she might experience a PTSD relapse—or something worse. But her determination to be there for Amanda, to care for her fiancée and be the strong one this time, kept her together and grounded. She couldn't afford to fall apart. She was goddamn sick of falling apart. "I wasn't injured. He barely touched— I'm okay. I just can't get the image of her reaching for me before she went down out of my head. And the blood."

The images would fade with time, that much she knew. Even the worst ones did. But she would never forget that look in Amanda's eyes when she fell, how she was still trying to offer comfort. That would be with Olivia always.

"Christ, I can't imagine. I don't even remember when it happened to me." Alex trailed off and though she made no sound to accompany it, she had definitely winced. "What am I saying? I'm sure you remember it a lot better than I do."

Olivia remembered Alex's near-assassination by the Columbian drug cartel like it had happened yesterday. If she thought about it long enough, she could probably even recall how the ADA's blood felt seeping through her fingers when she pressed her hands to the wound. She'd been so sure Alex was going to die. In a manner of speaking, she was right. "Yeah, I do."

"So," Alex said, after a lengthy silence on both ends, "got any plans for New Year's?"

It was a hammy, intentionally bad segue, and it made Olivia chuckle. She inched the cart forward with the moving line, smiling to herself. Alex's sense of humor didn't often make an appearance, but when it did, it was decidedly oddball. "Oh yeah, I'm gonna live it up with my three children under the age of eight, and the furbabies. It's going to be lit af."

"Lit af? I don't even know what that means."

Truth be told, Olivia didn't know for sure, either. She had picked up the term from Daphne, who claimed every holiday party she'd hosted, from Halloween on, was _lit af_. "It's short for 'lit as fuck.' I think it's this generation's version of 'bitchin'.'"

("Listen to you, _mami_ ," commented the young guy in line behind her.)

"Well, it sounds like an African literature course I took in undergrad," Alex said, definitely smirking. "And I'm being serious about New Year's. I'm going to be in the city for a couple days. Thought maybe we could get together, celebrate like old times."

Celebrating like the old times entailed staying up till 4 AM working on a case, nibbling bites of cold French fries and floppy takeout burgers, and falling asleep with laps full of files, their feet propped up on the closest chair or desk. But Olivia knew it went beyond that. The conversations they had during those long late nights were some of the deepest she had ever shared with anyone at that time, other than Stabler. Not a lot of personal details, at least from Olivia's side, but ideas were born, philosophies changed, and a lifelong friendship forged on those nights. She'd never had a close female friend until she met Alex.

"Oh. Um, I don't know if that's a very good—"

"You can bring Amanda," Alex said bluntly. "I meant the invitation for both of you."

That sounded like an even worse idea to Olivia. If it didn't go well between the two blondes, she would be stuck playing referee, and possibly bodyguard, all night. And it most certainly wouldn't go well with Alex's obvious mistrust (and jealousy?) towards Amanda. "Still. I'm not sure she'll be ready for a night out on the town by then. She has a long way to go in her recovery yet."

"Is it that or . . . something else?"

"What something else?" Olivia didn't need to ask. She'd already heard it in the other woman's voice. "You mean, do I think she won't _let_ me spend time with you?"

"I didn't ask that."

"You didn't have to."

They sighed in unison, the sound exacerbated by the phone speaker. It rustled like tissue—or brown—paper, a thought that might have been inspired by the current track waltzing through the air, an instrumental version of "My Favorite Things." Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, calls from old girlfriends who still are quite smitten . . .

"Don't you want to see me, Liv?" Alex asked, and in her tone a sliver of hurt was as detectable as a splinter beneath the skin. "I know we have different views on a lot of things now, but I thought we could put those aside for one night and just be friends again. You're the only one I've got."

 _Son of a bitch_ , Olivia thought, scrubbing at her forehead with the fingers on one hand. How was she supposed to say no to that? Loneliness and depression were a dangerous combination any time of year, but even more so around the holidays. Suicide rates spiked, especially among those without family and friends. People like Alex, who drunk dialed the woman she had never kissed, never slept with, never dared. The woman she had almost.

"I'll talk to Amanda about it," Olivia said, trying not to sound as uncertain about it as she felt. The former attorney was a tense subject for her and Amanda ever since Alex's previous phone call. Maybe even before that. There were offhand comments ("That Cabot again? Shouldn't she be disappearing somebody right now?") and rolled eyes after a few of the texts and email alerts that buzzed on Olivia's phone at odd hours, in the weeks leading up to the call. She didn't want this to be the culminating storm, after those little bits of lightning and thunder. She also didn't want to lose a longtime friend. "If she doesn't feel up to it, I'm sure she'll be fine with me going out for a couple hours. I would like to see you and catch up. Let me know where and when, and I'll try to make it work."

"Great. I'll text you the details." Alex sounded more cheerful than she used to winning cases for a living. "I'm really looking forward to it."

"Are you okay, Alex?" Olivia asked, when they were saying their goodbyes a few minutes later. She was two customers behind in the checkout lane, and Alex claimed she had to go anyway, although not very convincingly. "You seem a little out of sorts."

"I'm better now that we've talked. You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice. And to know I'll get to see you in a couple of weeks. Merry Christmas, Liv."

"Merry Christmas."

An uneasy feeling had settled into the pit of Olivia's stomach by the time she ended the call. Not only was she concerned for Alex, but the thought of arguing with Amanda about her—this close to Christmas and this soon after the shooting—filled her with dread. Joni Mitchell was crooning "River" over the sound system, and as Olivia wheeled her cart up to the counter, she began to wish for a river to skate away on too.

**. . .**


	17. Chapter 16: A Cold and Broken Hallelujah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note as it appears on ff.net: Not a lot of multi-shippers among the Rolivia stans, I see. ;) Sorry to any Alex fans out there who are disappointed she's a foil in the Devilishverse; I really do love her, but I also really love angst and conflict for my OTP. Thanks for the chapter 15 reviews. Yeah, PQ, Amanda's up and around pretty quick, but that's kinda her way. Pushing herself to recover. To get up and walk out of the hospital after a placental abruption that almost killed her, etc. lol. That girl. What am I gonna do with her? Muhahaha... ahem, wait, where was I? Not sure if this chapter needs a trigger warning, but it does deal with addiction, so tread carefully if need be. Enjoy.

* * *

Maybe there's a God above  
But all I've ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya  
It's not a cry that you hear at night  
It's not someone who's seen the light  
It's a cold and broken hallelujah

\- k.d. lang, "Hallelujah"

* * *

## CHAPTER 16: A Cold and Broken Hallelujah

**. . .**

"And so this is Christmas," Amanda murmured along with the tune she could just discern over the clamor of a million frenzied shoppers.

Okay, maybe not a million, but it felt like that many as she navigated the thoroughfare of the mall, sidestepping and dodging as if she were in an obstacle course. Any other time, she simply would have powered her way through—grown men stood aside for the cop walk—but she had to protect her injury. The bomber jacket was folded over her arms, which she kept firmly in place across her abdomen, forming a shield of sorts. She paused every once in a while to check that the content of her jacket pocket was still there. She had almost gone and walked off without it, like a damn fool, when she parted with Olivia in the toy store. It was the whole reason she'd suggested coming to the mall in the first place.

"For weak and for strong. For rich and the poor ones, the world is so wrong." She snorted at the lyrics, truly hearing them for the first time and wondering how she had overlooked that line all her life. Maybe because this was the first Christmas she had three children and a fiancée to buy presents for, not to mention a visiting mother who might claim she preferred Amanda to spend her money on "the children and your . . . Olivia," but would play the martyr for years to come if she didn't get a nice gift. Amanda hadn't felt so broke since the time in college when she couldn't even afford to go to McDonald's for lunch with her friends. After that, she'd resumed the activity that had almost gotten her kicked out of Mrs. Judd's fifth grade class at Loganville Elementary—taking her fellow students for all they were worth at poker. It was some of the easiest money she ever made, and it had kept her in greasy hamburgers and hot apple pies until graduation.

Now, she felt that broke again, and she hadn't even spent any money yet. There were a few toys stowed away in the bedroom closet, but they paled in comparison to the lists written and presented by her kids on Thanksgiving day (a tradition passed down by their Uncle Sonny, bless his heart). Olivia had taken the annual Reading of the Lists in stride, nodding along politely while Noah rattled off enough dance equipment to fill a whole studio, Jesse asked for all of the _Wonder Woman 1984_ merchandise in existence, and Matilda squealed, "Horsey!" and galloped in circles. Meanwhile, Amanda had begun to sweat when she realized just how unprepared she was—mentally and financially—for the biggest holiday of the year, at least as far as her kids were concerned.

She was sweating again, but this time it was from physical exertion. It occurred to her that she had picked up speed, whipping past stores and weaving in and out of foot traffic like she would have in the good old days, before a 9mm slug traversed her insides. If she didn't slow down and stop humming along to Lennon's Christmas tune, she was going to get winded before she even reached her destination.

In fact, she was gasping for breath already, as she passed by Smoke & Mirrors, a store that got away with its tobacco sales by posing as a novelty shop for all manner of smoking paraphernalia: pipes, hookahs, humidors, cuspidors, decorative bongs, and more. Amanda had stopped in once for cigarettes and stayed over half an hour, just musing at the rare and quirky items she would never buy.

Getting a heady whiff of cigar on her way by, she took a deep, whooping breath and coughed it out, then clutched her side in agony. If it was possible to rip apart at the seams, like one of the old shirts her mama used to tear into cleaning rags, she had just done it. A stitch might actually have popped because of that cough, and she felt lightheaded enough that she ducked into the first available corner to catch her breath.

She couldn't pass out this soon after Olivia's fainting episode in the squad room. When that happened, she had chewed her fiancée out for not taking better care of herself and spent the next few weeks practically hand-feeding her to make sure she ate. If Amanda pushed herself too hard and fainted, she would never hear the end of it. Mainly, though, she didn't want to put Olivia through that—she knew how frightening it was, and the captain had already seen her get shot and almost die. Also, if she passed out in this madhouse, she'd probably get trampled.

The corner she had escaped into turned out to be a miniature arcade. Or rather, a money pit for unsuspecting parents who let their children wander in for a look at the vending machines filled with multicolored, rock-hard candies and cheap trinkets in plastic capsules. Along the back wall stood a pinball machine, photo booth, and Jurassic World interactive video game with seats that moved like a flight simulator. On the opposite wall, attached to a platform with the name Sandy scrawled in gold lettering across the side, was an ancient mechanical horse that operated on pennies and looked like it should be shot and put out of its misery. Amanda knew exactly how poor old Sandy felt.

Splaying a hand on the large vending machine beside her, she bent forward far enough for the top of her head to rest against the colorful kiosk as well. It probably wasn't as good as putting her head between her knees, but after some initial panting, the lightheadedness began to pass and she stopped perspiring. Hell's bells, she couldn't even walk the length of a damn shopping mall without almost blacking out. At this rate, she wouldn't be back to work until after the holidays, and that meant no extra cash for Christmas. She would be lucky if she could even afford stocking stuffers.

It wasn't fair, goddammit. She had worked hard her whole life to ensure that when she did have a family, she could provide for them. While her parents hadn't been dirt poor—that was a description reserved for her daddy's Alabama kin, who barely wore shoes and seldom made it past eighth grade—she remembered them struggling to make ends meet, usually because Dean had gambled away all their money again. The fights were the worst, then. Around the age of twelve, Amanda had vowed to herself that she would never live like that when she grew up. Her kids would always get what they wanted for Christmas and they would never have to see their mama sad or hurt. Now, thanks to that little bitch Alpha and her bullet, Amanda was failing on both counts.

The thought sent a surge of anger through her, and she gave the kiosk a vicious kick. Something inside of it pinged and she heard a labored dispensing noise, like dollar bills being ejected from the money return slot in a self-checkout lane. Something else dropped on the other side of the machine. Amanda looked around to see if anyone had noticed her outburst, but people were filing steadily past the arcade, too concerned with their armloads of gifts, their Auntie Anne's pretzels, their holiday spirit—or blues—to pay attention to the blonde woman assaulting a crane game full of stuffed animals.

At least Amanda had assumed it was that type of game, until she glanced back at it and read the bold, exclamatory text that decorated the side panel in bright primary colors:

**Jackpot! Win! Lottery! Play!**

She recoiled from the machine as if it had claws and fangs (and in fact, for her, it did). Her next instinct was to run, and she might have done it, if not for the stabbing pain in her upper torso. She was still breathing heavily from walking too fast, so running was out of the question. Hobbling away slowly didn't sound much better; more like a dog retreating from an abusive master with its tail tucked in. Jesus, how weak and pathetic was she, to not even be able to stand in the same vicinity as a lottery machine?

Keeping a wide berth, she skirted around the machine, intending to sit down on the edge of Sandy the horse's platform. But as she started that way, she saw the lottery ticket inside the slot where new purchases were dispensed. She must have knocked it loose with that kick. It was nothing more than an unused dollar scratch-off ticket, and there was no earthly reason why she should stand around gaping at it for a whole minute, her feet heavy as concrete blocks and refusing to budge.

Somewhere deep down, Amanda felt an old familiar itch that was so faint she could almost ignore it. She had been ignoring it for the past six years. There were slips here and there, but by the time Jesse was born, she had her gambling under control. She worked the program, avoided triggers, went to meetings, and did all the things a recovering addict should do, no matter how much she hated it. Eventually, she hated it a little less. And at some point, all those meetings and steps and refusals to buy even so much as a scratch ticket became as ingrained in her routine as checking stats and playing online blackjack had once been.

Gambling hadn't crossed her mind more than a handful of times in the last year. She was too busy falling in love with Olivia, moving in with Olivia, helping Olivia through trauma, making love to Olivia, proposing to Olivia. Immersing herself in nothing but Olivia Margaret Benson. Amanda could happily go on that way forever—and she was happy, maybe the happiest she had ever been—so it didn't make sense to suddenly be tempted by a dumb lottery ticket that probably paid one hundred dollars at most. She wasn't going to throw away six years of sobriety for a measly hundred bucks. One hundred million, yes. Anything less than twenty or thirty grand was chump change.

Chuckling to herself, she snapped up the ticket for a look at the grand prize amount. When the card stock didn't immediately burst into flames in her hands, she relaxed and gave another short laugh. _Chill the fuck out, Rollins, you got this._ Even when she saw the Crazy 8's logo and read the announcement that she could "Win up to $888!" she hardly batted an eyelash. Her fingers didn't twitch, and she didn't reach instinctively for a coin to scratch away the silver coating with fevered and furtive reflexes, like some junkie shooting up in a back alley. The muscle memory was gone.

The only thing that gave her pause was when she tucked the lottery ticket into her pants pocket. Her fingertips bumped against the silicon shell of her phone case, and she wondered if she should pull out the phone and call her sponsor or Olivia. But she dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred. She had little more than a halfhearted acquaintance with the sponsor, who struck her as snobbish and possibly homophobic ("You don't seem gay," she commented to Amanda, every chance she got).

And calling Olivia would just make her worry needlessly. Amanda had already caught her fretting in front of the mirror, convinced that the hair at her temples was graying from the stress of the past week and a half. Personally, Amanda thought a few silver strands woven in with the dark brown ones would be sexy as hell, but Olivia did not see it that way. She'd scheduled an appointment with her colorist, who shuffled some clients around just to squeeze her in three days before Christmas.

Amanda had overheard her mother singing "Silver Bells" in the living room not long after Olivia got off the phone, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was mere coincidence or a dig at her fiancée's hair care woes. She knew for a fact that Beth Anne had been dyeing her hair honeysuckle blonde since the age of forty-three—Amanda didn't much care for that particular detail—and left untouched, it would be as white as the snow that had recently turned Central Park into a winter wonderland. She'd wanted so badly to march into the living room and issue her mother a loud reminder, but marching was out of the question and she was trying her damnedest to get along with Beth Anne for her children and Olivia's sake.

Her captain had been nothing short of attentive to her every need, concern, and whim since the shooting. Amanda didn't take too much advantage, although she had found herself exaggerating her pain at times so Olivia would put aside the paperwork or the journal, and focus on holding her. Stroking her hair, kissing her forehead, murmuring I love you's. If she called the other woman right now, Olivia would drop everything and come to her rescue. For what, though? A goddamn dollar scratch-off? That would be the most pathetic story in the history of Gamblers Anonymous. _My fiancée had to save me from the lottery, but hey, we won five bucks—cha-ching!_

After six whole years, Amanda couldn't possibly be that weak and susceptible. And she flat-out refused to frighten Olivia with something so small, on top of everything else the captain had on her plate: a fiancée who was physically and financially lame, a bitchy mother-in-law who just wouldn't go away, three small kids expecting a magical Christmas, and a squad to run. And though Olivia wasn't admitting it, Amanda suspected that their experience at the bank had triggered a PTSD flare up.

No. Amanda had it under control. She'd only stuck the ticket in her pocket because there was no sense in leaving behind what might be a winner. It was that kind of reasoning that turned her into a compulsive gambler and saw her sink thousands of dollars into debt, but back then, she wouldn't have been able to go thirty seconds without scratching the ticket.

Now, it had been at least a full minute, and she wasn't charging for the nearest casino or jonesing for the next big championship game. She was standing there with Sandy the mechanical pony, barely aware of the ticket in her pocket, which she would present to Olivia when they met up at the car. What better way to prove her strength and self-restraint than to hand over one of her former vices, unscathed? Cash prize or not, it would be a win and reinforce that Olivia could trust her.

"Nice horsey," she said, stopping to pat Sandy on the head before making her way back onto the main drag. She smiled to herself as she went, thinking only of Matilda—that sweet little thing loved her some horses—her other two children, and her beautiful bride-to-be.

Suddenly, it seemed like everything might just work itself out after all.

**. . .**

A few minutes later, she reached the jewelry store and felt her good mood start to wane. A crowd of people milled around the long display cases, gazing intently at the glass and the expensive items within. Their faces were lit from below by refracted light, giving them all an angelic sheen, but Amanda didn't see a host of seraphim. She saw a bunch of assholes who would probably take hours to browse things they couldn't afford, then wander off to the cheaper jewelry counter in Macy's. Several of them were couples, and Lord knew how long they would take if engagement or wedding bands were being decided upon.

"Sonsabitches," Amanda muttered under her breath. She was debating a trip downstairs to Zales—it would take at least another fifteen minutes to get there and probably be just as packed—when a voice called out a greeting and queried, "May I help you?"

At first, she didn't believe the man was speaking to her, but no one else stepped forward and she wasn't about to let the grass grow under her feet. Besides, she had a hole in her stomach. If that didn't count as a pass to the front of the line, she didn't know what would.

"What can I show you this evening, miss?" the man asked, when she approached the counter. He was a bit of a dandy, an impression strengthened by the velvet dinner jacket, silk cravat, and flawless hair and posture. He looked like he should be wearing a monocle and smoking with a cigarette holder.

Amanda mentally dubbed him "Old Sport," though his name tag read "Brennan." He glanced down with poorly concealed distaste when she plopped her bomber jacket onto the glass countertop in front of him, but she didn't care. She needed a place to lean and the jacket held what she'd come here for. "Hey," she said, fishing in its pocket for Olivia's watch. "I'm not here to buy. I just want to know if this can be fixed and how much it'll cost."

Old Sport drew back slightly, as if he expected her to be holding out a dead frog or a piece of dog shit. When he spotted the Breitling instead, his eyes lit up and his entire mien changed. Amanda could practically see the dollar signs flashing in his pupils. She was used to New Yorkers looking at her like she'd just emerged from a dilapidated trailer, a baby on her hip, a cigarette in her mouth, and a beer in her hand—especially when they heard her speak. But this was a new reaction, and one she had only experienced when she went undercover as someone with a whole lot of money. Old Sport thought she was rich.

"Oh, of course. Of course. May I?" He gestured with upturned palms to the watch, accepting it with the reverence of a snake handler taking possession of a deadly cobra. He tsked his disapproval as he studied the deep crack in the crystal facing. "What a shame. And such fine craftsmanship, otherwise. Breitlings are quite durable. It would take some effort to cause this type of damage."

He was poking around for an explanation, but Amanda had none to give him. She'd phoned Kat in secret a few days ago to ask if the officer had any idea how the watch got broken. The younger woman could only tell Amanda that, as far as she knew, the watch had been intact when delivered to the apartment. That was exactly what Amanda hoped _not_ to hear. In her gut, she knew what had happened. Maybe not the specifics. But the whole damn thing was shady and reeked of Beth Anne Rollins.

So far, Amanda couldn't bring herself to confront her mother about it. She didn't want to know. And more than that, she didn't want Olivia to know. No matter how many times the captain claimed she was fine with not wearing the watch anymore, Amanda had still seen the hurt in those dark brown eyes whenever they glanced down, out of habit, at an empty wrist. Finding out Beth Anne had intentionally destroyed something so precious to her—and for what purpose? Spite? Jealousy? Amusement?—would only hurt Olivia more. She'd already lived with one cruel, abusive mother; she didn't need another one making her feel unwanted and resented.

"My wife's a cop," Amanda said flatly, as if that covered any and all of Old Sports' remaining questions. She did like saying _my wife_ , though. It had come out on its own and she saw no reason to correct it. "Hazard of the job."

"Ah, I see."

Clearly, he did not. But he gave a sage nod and turned his attention back to the Breitling without nosing for more details. "Well, we do timepiece repairs on site," he said, draping the watch against his velvet sleeve like it was on display for a photo op. "And if you'll give me a moment, I'll speak with my manager and get you an estimate for this model."

None of that sounded very promising to Amanda. She might as well be at an auto repair shop, about to get gouged on a new transmission. At least then she would have some knowledge about reasonable prices—her uncle Davy was a mechanic, and she'd hung around his shop as a teenager, answering the telephone and learning how to change tires, install spark plugs, and identify common issues under the hood. But she didn't have any relatives who were jewelers (unless you counted cousin Boone, doing time in the state pen for muling drugs and jewels), and Old Sport here could take her for a real ride if he saw fit.

While she waited for him to return, she hummed along to the weird _Peanuts_ Christmas song and tried not to think about how much her feet hurt or how painfully rigid her abdomen felt. She moved her jacket aside and distracted herself further by examining the jewelry encased below it. Her first instinct was to laugh, when she realized what was in the display; her second was to cuss and kick the damn thing, like she had kicked the lotto machine.

She did neither, choosing instead to stand there shaking her head at the universe's twisted sense of humor. In front of her, sparkling like a blanket of new fallen snow, were rows upon rows of the most beautiful engagement rings Amanda had ever seen. The rings she'd picked out for Olivia and herself were lovely, but these were befitting of royalty—and as far as she was concerned, her fiancée was a queen. A queen deserved better than a ring she'd had to wash the blood from.

Towards the rear of the case, Amanda spotted the one she wanted. Though twice as pretty as the rest, it stood aside to make room for the more ornate pieces. The band was white gold, topped by a roselike swirl with a larger diamond nestled in the middle and several smaller diamonds clustered among the petals. Flanked by deep blue sapphires and even more accent diamonds, the rose, a thing of delicate beauty, bloomed strong, centered, eternal. Everything about that ring reminded her of Olivia Benson.

Amanda was still staring at it, her nose practically pressed up against the glass, when Old Sport reappeared from the back room several minutes later. He had to clear his throat to get her attention, and for a split-second after she straightened, he eyed the fog left behind on the counter by her breath. She wouldn't have been a bit surprised if he'd pulled out a handkerchief and polished away the moisture, but he plastered on an obsequious smile—rich was rich, whether or not you left behind smudges—and cradled the watch in his palms like it was a newborn.

"I have excellent news for you," he said, sounding genuinely delighted. The guy really liked his watches. "Mister Vermilion would be more than happy to repair your wife's Breitling. Now, this _is_ a much older model and will require some special ordering. However, I mentioned that it belongs to an NYPD officer, and he agreed that one of New York's finest shouldn't be running around the city without her watch. No extra charge to have it ready for you by Christmas."

That all sounded great, but Amanda hadn't heard a price yet. _Cut to the chase, Old Sport_ , she thought, and almost said it out loud, catching herself just in time.

"How much are we talking?" she asked, hunched forward with her elbows on the countertop. She was feeling more rundown by the minute and didn't have the energy for a sophisticated rich lady facade. He'd have to settle for plain old jank-ass Amanda Rollins.

"It will be a fifty dollar discount, with the waived rush order fee." Old Sport paused to let that sink in, as if he expected her to agree, based on how much she wouldn't have to pay. "Even with the special order, you would still pay twice as much if you sent the watch in to be serviced at a Breitling repair center. And you might wait four to six weeks for it to be returned. Well into next year."

Unimpressed with his salesmanship, Amanda blinked boredly through the entire spiel. When it ended, she looked him dead in the eye and repeated, "How much?"

"At this point, if you only want to replace the crystal, it will be five hundred dollars." He said it with no more import than a fast food worker charging fifty cents for an ice cream cone. "But I did notice signs of wear on the strap, and it's best to have this type of watch tuned up every four years or so, especially after it's been damaged. I noticed the inscription on the back. I'm sure your wife would want such a beloved keepsake to be in the finest working order."

Amanda was still reeling from the five hundred dollar response, and barely heard the rest. She gave a blank nod, trying to calculate in her head how many credit cards she would have to max out in order to cover the repairs. She had known the watch was expensive and having it fixed would set her back a bit, but she could buy about ten brand new watches for that price. Not Breitlings, of course, but something nice that worked just as well.

Goddamned Serena Benson and her extravagant taste. Once again, Amanda found herself wondering how an English professor who was probably drunk off her ass at the time of purchase could possibly afford such a costly gift. Had to be a windfall. Maybe Mama Benson liked to play the ponies too, Amanda thought, suppressing a bitter laugh.

"—fifteen hundred altogether," Old Sport finished, with a self-satisfied air. He must have a commission-based salary. "Shall I begin the paperwork, or was there something else you were interested in? I noticed you were looking over our ring selection. Is there one I can show you?"

Dully, and without touching the glass, Amanda pointed to the rose ring, its petals alight with all those tiny diamonds. Each one seemed to be winking up at her, as if they were in on the joke—the joke that she would ever be able to afford them. "How much is that one?"

"Ah, the Vera Wang. An excellent choice." Retrieving a wrist coil from inside his jacket cuff, Old Sport used the attached key to unlock the mirrored sliding doors at the back of the jewelry case. As he delicately lifted the ring in its small, cushioned box, he rattled off a litany of facts about karat (and carat), cut, and size. But all Amanda cared about was the price tag, which he discreetly flashed for her from a white tab sealed through the ring:

$2,099.99

And that was just for one. If she wanted an engagement ring to match Olivia's—and she did, desperately so, though it hadn't seemed as dire until she couldn't afford it—she would have to fork over four thousand dollars. Nearly six thousand, when the watch was figured in. And _that_ didn't even include the other presents she needed to buy. She couldn't fix the watch her own mother had probably broken and replace a ring that she'd already proposed with, and not give Olivia any real gifts. Then there was the wedding itself, coming up in a few short months, and Lord knew how much that would cost . . .

Her head swimming with numbers and totals and bills she had yet to acquire, let alone pay, Amanda had tuned out Old Sport. He was holding the ring out expectantly, smile frozen in place. He looked like the creepy bartender from _The Shining_ , offering that fateful drink. Which made her Jack Torrance, throwing away his sobriety and going absolutely stark raving mad.

_Heeere's Mandy!_

"I'll think about it," she said, feigning indifference. As if she were too rich to care one way or the other. Too high-class to fawn over such a poor quality item in a third-rate jewelry store she'd only stepped into because it was convenient. She made sure to keep her own ring well out of view. "Just the watch for now, Ol— Brennan. Go ahead and add the new strap and tune up thing."

He had probably exaggerated the necessity for extra repairs, but Amanda wasn't going to half-ass this thing. She would just have to figure something out; she'd escaped tighter financial binds before.

When she had signed all the documentation (there was less paperwork involved in buying a brand new car) and paid the one hundred dollar security deposit, which counted toward the payment in full, to be charged upon pick-up, Amanda thanked Old Sport, collected her jacket, and tried not to glance at the rose ring as she departed the store. That sad Christmas song about skating away on a river was playing when she stepped back into the chaos beyond, almost getting swept away by a sea of people herself. She hated that song. She hated all the people. And right then, she kind of hated Christmas too.

Fighting her way back in the direction from which she had come, she made it as far as Smoke & Mirrors before her feet stopped working. There was no physical reason she could find. They were tired, but not so exhausted she couldn't continue; they were heavy, but she could still lift them. The damn things just wouldn't carry her any farther. There was an empty bench across from the store and she forced herself over to it, dropping down heavily on the wooden slats. She wasn't even out of breath, and the pain in her gut was bad but not intolerable. Not until she reached back to remove the cell phone from her pocket did it click—where she sat, what she held in her hand besides the phone, why her body had simply shut down.

On the ground, right next to her black high top, she spotted a shiny new penny, heads up. The lucky side. She laughed outright, earning a few stares from passersby, and clutched her side as she leaned over to pick up the coin. For a minute, she sat there holding it and guffawing until tears streamed from her eyes, blurring the lighted lettering that resided above the dim, tobacco-scented storefront ahead of her. ( _Struck & Millions_, it briefly read. _Broke & Minus_.) The entrance reminded her of the dark and smoky rooms she used to escape to, feeding her dirty little habit, chasing the high of a big win. When she first stepped into those places, enveloped by an atmosphere of smoke, anticipation, and riches—she'd always imagined she could _smell_ the money—it had felt like being welcomed into a warm embrace.

"Okay," she said to no one in particular, to good ol' Honest Abe's stalwart profile. To the Crazy 8's lottery ticket she had accidentally pulled from her pocket, alongside her phone. "Okay."

Had she really meant to scratch it all along? She didn't think so, but as she scraped off the silver coating with the edge of the penny, swiping the flakes away after each prize amount revealed itself, she couldn't help wondering. Or maybe she was just that big of a dumbass, to throw six years away on impulse. On a ten-second thrill.

( _Storms & Monsters,_ she thought as she scratched. _Smack & Mothers_. _Fuck & Horrors_.)

And then it was over. She stared down at the ticket and the ash-like flecks scattered on her pant leg and smudged into her fingertips. It had been so long since she scratched one, she'd forgotten how messy they were. She didn't even like the damn things. They were her least favorite form of gambling—no strategy or skill involved, nothing to experience. Just a lap full of soot and five measly dollars to collect. She felt like she'd let a random stranger jizz on her for a wad of singles. She felt like she might barf.

A few feet off from the bench stood a trash bin. Amanda headed towards it (her legs worked perfectly fine now), planning to rip up the ticket and toss it in the receptacle, and maybe herself along with it. Instead, she veered sharply to the right, walked straight into the headshop, cashed the ticket there, and bought a pack of Camels with the five. She still had a couple cigarettes stashed inside her running shoe at home, but she wanted a new pack to hold in her hands. Without it, she feared what those hands might do next.

Five minutes later, she finally reached the mall exit she was supposed to have left nearly forty minutes ago. She desperately craved a cigarette, but she had peeked into the toy store on her way by and seen Olivia at the checkout counter, sliding her credit card into the chip reader. Amanda had just enough time to get out to the car, get it started, and hope she wasn't still huffing and puffing by the time Olivia arrived. She was halfway there when the combination of cold air and hurried footsteps left her breathless, a stitch in her already tender side. Clutching it, she staggered the last few yards to the SUV and barely managed to haul herself into the passenger seat once she got the door open.

Her breathing had just returned to normal when the hatchback raised, filling the cabin with a mellow light that sent her scrambling to stuff the open pack of cigarettes into her jacket pocket. She'd only wanted a sniff. "Need any help?" she called back too quickly, and had to repeat herself because Olivia didn't hear her the first time.

"No, you stay where it's warm." Olivia waved at Amanda over the backseat, just a gloved hand visible beyond the headrest. A few moments later, after a lot of shuffling noises and a grunt or two, the trunk closed and Olivia bustled into the driver's seat, bringing with her a blast of cold air and chattering her teeth. "Brrr," she said, elongating the sound with a trill of her lips. Her cheeks and nose were a vibrant shade of pink below her floppy knit beret. She couldn't stop sniffling. "Sorry it took so long, love. I didn't think that line was ever going to move. Why's it so cold in here? I told you to stay warm."

"I'm all right." Actually, Amanda was freezing too, and felt a little lightheaded from blowing into her hands to warm them while she'd waited for the heat to kick in. It had taken a bit of the chill from the air so far, but obviously not enough. "I didn't want to leave the car running that long. Bad for the engine. And it wastes gas."

"Amanda, you're still recovering." Olivia turned the heater on full blast and checked that the passenger side vents were open and aimed at Amanda. "Now's not the time to be frugal. I don't want you getting sick. I shouldn't have even brought you out in this weather to begin with. You look peaked. Let me feel your forehead."

Amanda didn't have much choice in the matter, as Olivia's glove came off, that hand cupping her brow. But she didn't object; instead, she watched the captain intently, wondering if her guilt was showing or if Olivia would somehow divine through touch what had transpired outside Smoke & Mirrors. She almost blurted it out then and there. If she were stronger, maybe she would have. If she were more like Olivia.

And less like her father.

"You do feel a little warm. That's it, I'm taking you home." Olivia fastened her seat belt and reached for the gearshift. Before putting it in reverse, she glanced over with concern and what might have been some guilt of her own—although that was probably just Amanda projecting. "Did something happen while I was in the store?" she asked, an odd note in her voice. Whenever she told the kids she'd be home from work in time to tuck them in, knowing it wasn't always true, that was how she sounded.

Amanda shoved both hands into her pockets, nearly crushing the pack of Camels, and checked that neither of her knees were bobbing. "Nope." She mustered the most natural smile she could, hoping it didn't come out as a wince. She had never found lying difficult until she met Olivia. "I was messin' around on my phone the whole time. Almost dozed off, actually. Guess I'm just plumb tuckered out from all the toy shopping."

A look of relief stole over Olivia, and she returned the smile fondly. "Well then, little pretty, let's get you home and into bed. Can't have my girl or her plums tuckered out."

"Not the same kind of plumb, darlin'." Amanda gave a light, appreciative chuckle, but a second later—and without knowing precisely why—she heard herself ask, "Did something happen with you in the store?"

Olivia pulled her other glove off by biting down on the middle finger, then handed the pair to Amanda. "You mean besides fifteen different renditions of the same damn Christmas song? No. Here, put these on, they'll keep you warm."

She was right. As soon as Amanda took her hands from her pockets, careful not to let the cigarettes show, and slipped the fur-lined leather gloves on, the heat trapped inside from Olivia's hands warmed her considerably. Even that felt like a lie on her part. As if she had somehow deceived Olivia into giving up the gloves and braving the cold.

"Did you win?"

Amanda snapped to attention, prying her gaze from the engagement ring on Olivia's finger. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about the rose ring with the sapphires since she got back to the car. When she wasn't thinking about the scratch-off ticket and how badly she had screwed up, that was. "Huh?" she asked warily.

"You said you were on your phone. I figured you were playing one of your apps." Olivia waggled her fingers at the phone in Amanda's lap, as if the device contained magical properties that made Candy Crush appear from thin air. She still couldn't find the app store on her own phone half the time.

Why did she have to be so damn cute? That just made the lying even harder.

"Oh, uh yeah, I won a couple times."

_Or just the once._

Olivia eyed her suspiciously as they were exiting the mall parking lot. "You sure you're okay, sweetie?"

For the final time that evening, Amanda told another lie: "Yep. All good, babe. Now, quit worrying that pretty li'l head of yours and take me on home."

**. . .**


	18. Chapter 17: Neither the Angels in Heaven Above

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a late start at proofreading this chapter, so I'm posting it first & proofreading it after. Excuse any typos, which I'll hopefully catch and fix before I embarrass myself too much, heh. Dedicating this chapter to sheepish123, whose birthday is tomorrow. Happy birthday, my friend! I hope it's awesome, and here's a (mostly) happy chapter for you. :) Merry Devilishverse Christmas to everybody as well, lol. The next four chapters were all one before I edited; I think the breaks work pretty well, though. This is the only one I think ends a little abruptly, but that's probably because I'm used to reading the whole thing together. Okay, I'll let you go read now. Enjoy.

## CHAPTER 17: Neither the Angels in Heaven Above

**. . .**

The presents that had taken hours to wrap took no more than five minutes—although, it felt more like five seconds—for the kids to tear through, ripping and clawing like a trio of rabid wolves. Olivia had never in her life seen such a sight. Last Christmas had been livelier than she was used to, with just the two children, but Matilda had still been young enough to need help opening her gifts, and Noah had loved playing the helpful big brother. This year, Matilda grasped the concept of unwrapping (and new toys!) much better, and with Jesse added to the mix, it was a veritable free-for-all.

Throw in two excitable pups and a moderately healed Amanda, who was ecstatic that her mother would soon be returning to Georgia, and it was the most animated Christmas morning Olivia had ever known. The holiday had been one of the better ones from her childhood—Serena loved it and put more effort into the festivities than at any other time of year—but sedate compared to this madness, and more like a performance than a family celebration. The one day a year Serena acted like a mother and Olivia got to be the doted upon only child. Spending an entire day together had been so awkward for both of them, they actually blushed when they took turns opening their presents while the other watched.

None of Olivia and Amanda's children had that problem. In fact, Olivia had yelped and took a step back after the last gifts were handed out, the go-ahead was announced, and the melee commenced. Amanda laughed and assured her it was perfectly normal for kids, especially siblings, to turn into a bloodthirsty mob on Santa's big day, as she called it. According to the detective, she and her sister had once knocked over the tree in their excitement, starting a minor fire that left a scorch mark in the living room carpet.

"This is what you get when you join the Rollins clan, my darlin'," Amanda said, tugging Olivia into her lap and grinning as they watched the flurry of colorful wrapping paper, ribbons, and bows whirling around them. "Sure you don't want to get out while you still can?"

"Not on your life," Olivia had replied, stealing a soft kiss before shifting aside to sit thigh to thigh with her fiancée on the couch. It had more to do with Amanda's wound needing a couple more weeks of recovery than it did with Beth Anne giving them the stink eye from her seat in the armchair.

 _If you only knew what I did to your daughter in that chair_ , Olivia thought smugly, and draped her arm around Amanda's shoulders. Not the most effective response, but she was fed up with being judged in her own home by a woman who made it clear she despised Olivia every chance she got. And always while wearing that bratty little grin. The more Olivia saw it, the more it reminded her of some sharp-toothed, jeering carnivore—a crocodile or a hyena. Something that smiled while it ate you, bones and all.

The one good thing to come from the older woman's continued presence was how closely it had driven Olivia and Amanda together in opposition to her. Rather than fighting with each other about Beth Anne, they were bonding over their mutual dislike of her. In a juvenile and catty sort of way, it was almost fun to gang up on her when she wasn't looking. Olivia had never had that option with her own mother. The few times she'd tried to defy Serena or stand up to her drunken, verbal abuse, it had ended badly. Usually with Olivia getting hurt—and not just by words. Eventually, she learned to stop trying, although by that time, it didn't really matter anymore. Serena's favorite pastime while drunk had been picking fights with her teenage daughter and proving how thoroughly she could win them. By any means necessary.

Knowing Beth Anne could be verbally or physically reduced to dust at any moment, if Olivia said the word (for it was Amanda who most longed to put the woman in her place, and only held back for the children and Olivia's sake), was comforting. But try as she might to ignore the rejection, to laugh it off as her very own "monster-in-law" tale or to simply rise above it as she normally would when treated with disdain, it still hurt. What was it about her that made it impossible to ever know a mother's love? Serena had her reasons, as difficult as they had been—and still were—for Olivia to understand, but Beth Anne seemed to hate her just for sport. It bothered her far more than she cared to admit.

She and Amanda had tried multiple times, subtly and tactfully, to encourage Beth Anne to either return to Georgia or relocate to a hotel for the remainder of her stay. Each time, Beth Anne somehow finagled "one more night" out of them, whether it was by fretting over the price of a Manhattan hotel room (Amanda still wouldn't let Olivia foot the bill) or with a sob story about being alone on Christmas. Before they knew it, three weeks had gone by, and their houseguest hadn't budged. It was three of the longest weeks of Olivia's life, and she couldn't wait for it to be over. In the meantime, she would just enjoy watching her children play with their new toys while she snuggled with her bride-to-be.

She was chuckling at Noah's attempt to moonwalk in the patent leather dance shoes he'd desperately wanted, when Amanda reached over the arm of the couch, bringing forth a small but heavy gift bag Olivia didn't recall seeing before now and placing it in her lap.

"Merry Christmas, city girl," Amanda said, deep fondness in her tone and in those brilliant blue eyes, which rivaled the tree lights in warmth and sparkle. She was as excitable on Christmas morning as the kids, and had spent the last half hour sneaking presents out of various hiding spots and slipping them to Olivia like contraband.

Thus far, the stack at Olivia's side contained a pashmina scarf in such a delicate shade of gray it resembled mist, a pair of pajamas that were equally soft and irresistible to touch, a collection of Toni Morrison's most popular works, an expensive red she'd been eager to try, a candle scented like chocolate covered strawberries (it smelled good enough to eat), and reservations for two at a spa Amanda had sworn she would never set foot in. Olivia hadn't scrimped on gifts for her fiancée, but she was beginning to feel embarrassingly spoiled herself. She'd told Amanda not to go overboard—one or two presents were more than enough. So much for that theory.

"Amanda Jo Rollins," she scolded lightly. But she couldn't keep the corners of her mouth from twitching, and when she picked up the bag, giving it a playful little shake next to her ear, she broke into a wide open grin. "What is it?"

"Look inside and see, you cotton-headed ninny muggins."

"Cotton-headed ninny muffins!" Jesse echoed, and fell into a pile of ransacked wrapping paper, clutching her belly and giggling. It was her favorite line from the movie _Elf_ , and the one she'd been repeating—and misquoting—incessantly since family movie night last weekend.

When the kids were in bed that evening, Amanda had requested her favorite holiday movie, _National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation_ , which she and her mother cackled over from beginning to end. Slapstick comedy was the one thing they seemed to agree on. That, and their disinterest in black and white movies. They had both fallen asleep during Olivia's favorite Christmas film, the original _Miracle on 34th Street_.

She hadn't watched it in years, but as a kid she'd been glued to the screen whenever it aired in the days leading up to December 25th. Now she remembered why she had loved it so. Maureen O'Hara as the single parent of sweet little Natalie Wood had, to six-year-old Olivia, seemed like the perfect, most beautiful mother in the world. She took booze away from an inebriated Santa and didn't drink it herself (even at six, Olivia had trouble suspending disbelief for that one); she showed affection for Natalie every chance she got, pulling the girl into her lap, playing with her hair, and never yelling or hitting; and when Natalie befriended the man next door, Maureen didn't throw a fit and tell her daughter the man wanted to do bad things to little girls—instead, she fell in love with him, and Natalie got a daddy!

For years Olivia had harbored a secret wish that her life could be like that movie. She'd finally put it to rest around the age of thirteen, but the ache was always there forever after. At the age of fifty-two, it had quieted to a sad, nostalgic longing, like the memory of past Christmases themselves. She had been glad Amanda and Beth Anne were asleep, so they didn't see her cry.

"Mimmy nubbins," Matilda sang out, trying to imitate Noah's ballet moves as he cavorted around Jesse, leaping and twirling and kicking up scraps of paper and shiny bows.

'Twas the dance of the sugarplum ninny muggins.

A thought occurred to Olivia then, and she had to blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling again—she had it better now than the mother and daughter in some old black and white movie ever did. She smiled warmly at the scene in front of her, at Amanda, and hugged the gift bag to her chest, in her contentment forgetting that she hadn't looked inside yet.

"Aw, babe, are you cryin'?" Amanda asked with a fond little laugh. She ruffled the back of Olivia's hair, then lowered that hand to the nape of her neck, idly stroking. "You haven't even opened it yet. I swear, for such a tough cop, you really are a chick sometimes."

"I'm still the chick who could kick your—" Before Olivia could decide which euphemism to use for Amanda's ass, she plucked aside the red tissue paper in the bag and gasped at what she saw beneath it. There, face up at the bottom of the peppermint-striped bag, was her Breitling watch.

The cracked crystal had been replaced with an even finer glass, so clear it was nearly imperceptible, and when Olivia gingerly lifted it for a closer look, she noticed that the wrist strap was new as well. The old one had been solid black onyx; the rich, supple leather of this one had a deep purple undertone, like blackberries. For a moment she thought it might be a whole new watch, but she could feel the inscription from her mother on the back. Long ago, her fingertips had memorized the feel of those words, as if a touch could make them more real, more tangible. As if it made them true.

"Oh my God, Amanda." A hand over her heart, Olivia gazed back and forth between her fiancée and the watch, unsure which to marvel at the most. Then the tears really did come, glistening in her eyes and giving the Breitling and Amanda's flaxen hair a fairytale shimmer. "When did  
you— _How_ did you—"

"That night we went to the mall," Amanda said, beaming with unmistakable pride. She looked about as delighted as the kids had when they handed out their homemade gifts of macaroni necklaces (the ones Frannie hadn't snacked on, that was) and pipe cleaner ornaments. "And it was just sittin' there in your drawer. Ain't like I had to be very sneaky. Okay, I may have hummed a few bars of the _Pink Panther_ theme, but that was it."

Olivia only half-heard the joke, too busy rubbing the wrist strap between her fingertips, savoring the soft genuine leather, to laugh. It had cost her a small fortune to replace the metal bracelet that originally held the dial in place, and this new strap was nicer than the one she'd splurged on years ago. "But sweetie, it's so expensive. You didn't need to spend that much on me."

The joy on Amanda's face faltered briefly, but it resumed the very next moment with such puckish charm—and that dimple—the fleeting expression seemed nothing more than a glitch. "Sure I did," she said, batting lightly with her finger at a long strand of Olivia's hair that had slipped from behind one shoulder. "And you let me worry about the price tag. Ain't no amount too high when it comes to my girl."

A scoff from Beth Anne cut Olivia short as she was about to counter that, yes, some prices were way too high, despite how much you loved someone. Until then, Olivia had almost forgotten that the other woman was there. She sighed, steeling herself for whatever fresh insult she was about to receive. But the insult, when it came, wasn't directed at her.

"You got something to say, Mama?" Amanda asked, without taking her eyes off Olivia and the watch.

"Oh, it's nothing." Beth Anne fluttered her hand in the air for them to carry on, but not without giving an indifferent shrug and adding, "You just sound exactly like your father. He used to say the same thing to me. It's how we ended up barely scraping by half the time."

"You know what," Amanda said too loudly, her gaze snapping around in Beth Anne's direction. Olivia placed her hand on the detective's knee and nodded to the children, who didn't appear to be listening—but always were. Forcing a tight-lipped smile, Amanda shook her head several times, looking as if she'd just heard a terribly unfunny punchline. "Watches were never really Daddy's style. How 'bout you, Mama? You like watches?"

There was a weight to the words, and to the sly, almost identical smirks on the other women's faces, that Olivia didn't quite understand. By now, she realized they didn't need a reason to be at each other's throats—the mother and daughter argued about everything from television volume to which way the toilet paper should unroll—but their death glares seemed even more loaded than usual. Olivia had spent the last few weeks playing referee between the pair, mostly so the kids wouldn't be subjected to any arguments. It was a daunting task.

"I like them just fine, Amanda Jo." Beth Anne kept a steady gaze on her daughter, not backing down from whatever silent challenge had been laid out before her. "But I can't see spending as much on one as I pay for almost an entire year's rent. It's a waste of good money. Y'all are police officers, not doctors or lawyers."

How Beth Anne knew the price of the watch, Olivia couldn't say, but she didn't have time to contemplate, because Amanda was fuming. The detective didn't care how her mother knew the Breitling's worth, only that her judgment was being questioned. And, Olivia suspected, the lawyer comment had hit an extra sore spot. She still hadn't told Amanda about the phone call from Alex that same night they were at the mall. She didn't want to see the look on the blonde's face that was there now.

"Well, she paid to have it repaired, not purchased brand new," Olivia said, aiming the comment at Beth Anne while smiling encouragingly at Amanda. "And it's her money, she can do whatever she wants with it. I love it so much. Thank you, my love."

Amanda's cheeks pinkened with pleasure this time, instead of fury. Her shoulders relaxed inside the red fleece robe she wore over her fluffy white pajamas. She resembled a candy cane, but her voice was pure hot chocolate when she smiled back at Olivia and directed, "Turn it over."

At first, Olivia only saw the inscription from her mother on the opposite side of the watch face. She scanned the old, familiar lines out of habit. Seldom did she read them anymore. She didn't like to dwell.

"Here, baby." Gently, Amanda took the watch and pointed to something on one of the straps, holding it up for Olivia to see.

Even with her glasses on, Olivia had to squint to see the words etched along the dark leather backing. "A little . . . pretty," she sounded out, not quite able to decipher the rest. She cocked her head, striving with every last bit of lens correction to bring it into focus. God, she felt about ninety sometimes.

"For my city girl," Amanda finished, chuckling at the difficulty Olivia was having. She turned the watch crosswise, running her thumbnail under each word for Olivia to follow along. It didn't help much, but it did put their faces closer together, and Amanda took full advantage, pecking her on the tip of the nose. "Love, Me."

And, a moment later: "You like?"

Olivia flashed her widest, prettiest grin, nodding enthusiastically. She didn't much like being on the receiving end of gifts, especially overpriced ones, but this one came from the heart and she truly had missed her watch. It was the best present she'd gotten in a long time. "I love it."

She pulled back the sleeve of her pink reindeer pajamas and held out her wrist for Amanda to fit the timepiece on. When it was in place, one notch off from being tight enough (she would fix the blonde's tentative buckling later), she leaned in to kiss Amanda warmly on the lips. Beth Anne could go right on huffing and puffing like the old bellows she was—Olivia damn well intended to show her fiancée the affection she deserved. "It's perfect," she murmured, sliding her palms up to Amanda's cheeks and cupping them gently for another kiss. "You're perfect."

"Ewww, Mommy's kissing Mama again!" Jesse cried. The little girl seemed to have reached the age when any lip lock between grownups, no matter how brief or chaste, was cause for disgust. But to be fair, she deemed almost everything "gross" or "icky" lately, including boys, frilly clothes, and most food. The only things that didn't make her list of vomitous items were the dogs, pizza, and her little sister, who parroted Jesse so often, Amanda had started calling her Rerun. ("I not wee won," Matilda insisted.)

Right on cue, the toddler piped in with a much less disapproving, "Mommy tissing Mama!" and flitted over to the sofa on her tiptoes. She had developed that habit recently too—walking on just the balls of her feet—and Olivia was trying to encourage her out of it without becoming too concerned about neurological or developmental problems. The pediatrician assured her that Matilda was healthy and hitting all the milestones for a two-and-a-half-year-old.

Sometimes, though, if Olivia let herself dwell too much on what she didn't know about her daughter's genetics (Amelia had been simple enough to research, but Calvin, with his nomadic existence and name changes, was almost impossible), she started to fret. Amanda did well keeping her grounded, reminding her that the birth parents and grandparents had all been physically healthy, despite their untimely deaths. The detective never mentioned their mental health, and Olivia did her best not to think about it. At times like this, with Matilda balanced on tiptoe, craning her neck and leaning over Olivia's knees, lips puckered for a "tiss," it was so easy to forget.

"Uh-oh, Mama, somebody else wants a _tissy_ ," Olivia said, scooping up Matilda and settling the child in her lap. It was a world of difference from holding Noah at that age. As lithe and slender as he was now, he had been a lug from the first moment she'd held him at five months old, right up until age three or four. Matilda was as light and dainty as a little bird from the first time Olivia held her at two months old, and that hadn't changed since.

Wrapping her daughter up in a snug embrace, Olivia dotted kisses to the child's delicate alabaster cheeks. They were even fairer than Amanda's, and they always mysteriously smelled of pancake syrup, though Matilda wouldn't touch the stuff. "Mmm, Mommy's girl," she sighed, nuzzling Matilda's auburn curls and leaning her towards Amanda, who wanted in on the snuggles. The detective gathered both of them into her arms, dropping kisses wherever they might land—hair, forehead, neck, one comically misplaced on Olivia's eyelid, another directly to Matilda's nostrils.

Eventually, the pecking became playful biting, Amanda's lips curled around her teeth as she made gobbling noises, like Cookie Monster with a plateful of Chips Ahoy! When the bites turned into tickles, Olivia squirmed and giggled as freely as her two-year-old, twisting sideways to shield them from the attack. It was a hopeless defense. Amanda had called in reinforcements, in the shape of Noah, who literally danced into the battle, jazz hands at the ready; Jesse, who didn't think tickle fights were at all gross, as long as she did the tickling; Frannie, who crash landed in the middle of everything; and Gigi, who didn't know which human to help first and therefore licked them all, tail fanning rapidly. Soon, the sofa was alive with flailing limbs, shrieks of laughter, and a cyclone of dog fur.

Minutes later, they had to call it quits because Amanda was clutching her stomach and groaning, "Good Lord," through pained chuckles and Olivia was in serious danger of peeing her pants ("Ewww," Jesse declared). Matilda had ended up in Amanda's arms at some point during the fracas, and as they all came down from the excitement, panting and spluttering a few final giggles, Amanda gazed over top of the curly-headed little girl and asked in a wry but affectionate tone, "You really want another one of these?"

It was the first mention Amanda had made of a baby in weeks, and Olivia hadn't attempted to broach the subject, either. She was relying on her old tried and true method of refusing to talk about a thing until it finally went away. But as she watched Amanda combing and fluffing Matilda's ringlets with her fingers, just as she was alternating strokes through Jesse's long blonde hair and Noah's golden-brown mop—the two older children had flopped down in front of the sofa to catch their breath—she realized she didn't want the subject to go away. Maybe, just maybe, she did want another child. And maybe she wanted it to be Amanda Rollins' baby.

"Could be fun," Olivia said softly. She tilted her head to one side, the hair swept over that shoulder cascading down her breast in a feminine pose she knew the detective found irresistible. She hadn't set out to charm her way to a fourth child, but Amanda had taught her a thing or two about getting exactly what she desired. "Don't you think?"

Amanda sighed and turned Matilda's face towards her. "Tell your mommy she fights dirty, Tilly," she said solemnly, then turned Matilda back, cheeks squished in her hand. She squeezed on either side, making the child's puckered lips move as if she were a sock puppet, and narrated in a high-pitched voice: "You fight dirty, Mommy. Let Mama at least get her strength back before you knock her up, capeesh?"

"Peesh?" echoed Matilda.

"Amanda." Olivia widened her eyes at the blonde and glanced sidelong, towards the chair where Beth Anne sat. The older woman had been uncharacteristically quiet since her comments about the watch, but Olivia could feel those green eyes boring holes into the back of her head. Even if Beth Anne didn't dislike her so much, she still would have preferred a less graphic discussion in front of her future mother-in-law.

"Wadn't me," Amanda said, putting her hands up in a blameless gesture. She pointed at Matilda. "Talk to the kid."

"Does Mommy need a bath?" Jesse asked, looking up from the Biblical pop-up book that was a gift from—who else—Grammy Beth. Getting a confused look from the adults, she elaborated, "'Cause she fights in the dirt."

Olivia cocked an eyebrow at Amanda. See? Always listening.

Not the least bit fazed by the question, Amanda reached down and tousled the little blonde head. "It was a joke, Jess. Fighting dirty means someone's not playing fair."

"You mean Mommy's a cheater?" Jesse asked, eyeing Olivia with suspicion. If there had been a record player in the room, it would have screeched to a halt at that very moment.

All three of the children were staring at Olivia now, each with varying levels of shock—none whatsoever from Jesse, rounded eyes and slack jaw from Noah, and a start from Matilda, who reacted to a sudden lurch from the woman holding her.

"Whoa, hey, no." Amanda sat forward quickly, waving her hands for the trio's attention. This time the question fazed her. She cast an apologetic look at Olivia, who was torn between amusement and an uneasy feeling she didn't have a name for (it felt like guilt). The latter was dismissed without much effort, and she settled into a cocky smirk as Amanda tried to talk her way out of trouble. "That is not what I meant. Mommy never ever ever cheats. Mommy is practically perfect in every way."

"That's Mary Poppins," Jesse said, and resumed reading about Jonah being swallowed by the big fish. A whale-like creature sprang up from the page, with a tab that drew the Jonah paper doll into the beast's mouth when pulled. Jesse tugged it and Jonah swam right in.

"Mary Popsins," Matilda agreed, but she stretched out her small arms to Olivia, seeking a calmer lap to cuddle up in. Noah had lost interest and returned to playing with his Hot Wheels racetrack. He made the toy cars dance before fitting them into the launcher.

Everyone had forgotten the discussion at hand, it seemed. Everyone except Beth Anne. "Do you think that's wise?" she asked in an exaggerated whisper, a hand shielding one side of her mouth. She glanced pointedly at each child. "Having another? Forgive me, dear, but you're not exactly in the spring of your youth. By the time college comes around, you'll be . . . what, seventy?"

That comment had been directed at Olivia, and the critical eye she met with now didn't belong to a five-year-old. It swept over her from fuzzy socks to fuzzy, slept-on hair, the green irises a shade darker than they were moments earlier. Viper-scale green.

Inside the precinct and out, Olivia had dealt with her share of pretty, bitchy women who thought they could cut her down to size with a glare like that. She was confident enough in her looks and her authority that it seldom struck a nerve. But this was in her own home and Beth Anne had gone after one of Olivia's tender spots—her age. Especially when it called into question her ability to be a mother.

"And you don't have many childbearing years left," Beth Anne said, turning on Amanda. "If any at all. It gets much harder with age, you know. There are all sorts of birth defects—"

"Okay. That's enough." At the same time she spoke, Amanda clapped once, so loudly and abruptly it made Olivia jump. (For some reason Beth Anne smiled at that.) The children looked up in mild surprise as well, and both dogs jerked their heads up, Frannie uttering a gruff little _woof_.

The only one not affected was Beth Anne, who went on sipping her tea as if nothing had happened. Those viper eyes gazed over the brim of her tea cup, alight with deviltry.

"How's that ham coming along, Mama?" Amanda asked a bit darkly. Food was clearly the last thing on her mind as she glared at her mother. "Why don't you go check on it?"

 _And don't come back_ , though not spoken aloud, was implied. Or perhaps that was just what Olivia heard in her head. She hugged her daughter close as she watched Beth Anne saunter out to the kitchen. The only other good thing about having Amanda's mother as a houseguest was her cooking. They had feasted like kings for the past three weeks, and Christmas dinner promised to be the best Olivia and her children had ever eaten. But she would have settled for pre-made if it meant being rid of the tension and its source—the woman preparing the meals.

"You okay?" Amanda asked quietly, scrunching her fingers around the thick sheaf of hair at the back of Olivia's neck. "Don't let her bullsh— her antiquated ideas about you-know-what bother you. She also believes Elvis is alive and the Confederate flag is a symbol of her Southern heritage."

Olivia offered a weak smile, trying not to let on how much Beth Anne's comments had bothered her. She was well aware she would be in her late sixties by the time Matilda turned eighteen. That realization had very nearly kept her from adopting the little girl. It didn't seem fair to become someone's mother, only for them to see you grow old and die while they were still so young.

It was love that had finally changed Olivia's mind. She had enough love to give her son and daughters to last them a hundred lifetimes. They would be strong, self-sufficient, well-adjusted adults by the time she left them, and they would know that she'd loved them with everything she had. That would be her greatest accomplishment, her legacy.

How could she not want to share that with another child—a perfect, innocent soul she helped bring into the world? Age and fear and the desire to do something important with her life had taken one child from her already. She couldn't let that happen again. And now she had Amanda, the only person she trusted to take up the mantle for her, when and if she ever had to lay it down.

"Yeah, I'm okay," she said, her smile more genuine this time. She rested her hand on the lump under Amanda's fluffy robe, approximately where a knee should be, and squeezed lightly. "Are you? She went after you a little bit there, too."

"I'm all right. She's had a bug up her butt about age ever since she hit fifty. Wants to make everyone else feel old right along with her." Amanda rolled her pretty blue eyes heavenward. "Not sure who said 'misery loves company,' but I think they'd met my mama."

Glancing up from the pride of lions that were menacing a boy inside their paper den, Jesse inquired, "Why doesn't Grammy like you, Mommy?"

Noah paused in the middle of loosing a car from the cannonlike device that shot it onto the track. He accidentally hit the detonator anyway, and the car spiraled through a series of loops and careened across the room, landing somewhere inside the Christmas tree. "Oops," he said sheepishly, then forgot about the toy altogether, his focus on Olivia.

The only child not looking to her for an answer was Matilda; worn out from playing with her new rocking horse, the toddler was now nodding off, her tiny fingers curled around the collar of Olivia's pajama top. She often fell asleep with her hand tucked inside of Olivia's blouses, comforted by the warmth and skin-to-skin contact. It never failed to make Olivia feel loved and needed.

She tried to think about that as she answered her children. "I'm not sure, sweet girl. I think your grammy just needs some time to get used to me. It's harder for grownups to get along sometimes."

Amanda scoffed, muttering under her breath. "Especially when one of them is a total bi—"

"But the important thing is," Olivia said hastily, raising her voice and tightening her grip on Amanda's knee, "she loves you kids. And she's a good grandma. It's okay if someone doesn't like me, but they better be nice to my girls and my guy, or else they're in big trouble."

"How big?" Jesse asked, suddenly enthralled. In her excitement, she stood up and boxed at the air like a tiny blonde prizefighter. She had never looked more like Amanda than that exact moment. "Will you kick her butt?"

"Yep." Olivia gave a matter-of-fact nod, only realizing a second later what a mistake it was, when she saw the pensive look on Noah's face. All those lectures about not expressing himself with violence, never shoving or hitting girls, never shoving or hitting _anyone_ —and then she threatened to do just that. Facetiousness was lost on seven-year-olds.

Five-year-olds, too. Before anyone had time to grab her by the train of her nightgown, Jesse ran for the kitchen at full tilt, hollering, "Guess what, Grammy? My mommy is gonna kick your butt!"

"Oh, shit," Olivia muttered, then cringed when Noah went bug-eyed. She and Amanda hardly ever cursed in front of the kids, although the detective was far more likely to slip. Most of the time it was "sonuvabitch," but apparently "shit" had made an appearance or two as well, judging by the recognition on Noah's face. They would need to have another one of their special talks when Christmas was over.

"I'll take care of it." Amanda pushed up from the couch, grunting with effort and holding her belly. She wavered in place for a second, the other hand on her head as if she'd gotten a rush from standing too quickly. Then she was off, bellowing Jesse's full name and hurrying after her.

Olivia regarded her son, debating whether or not to dampen the Christmas mood after all with a hypocritical speech about the evils of swearing, when a text message decided for her. She reached for her cell phone on the end table, next to Amanda's, and brought up her messages just as another one buzzed through. Both were from Alex Cabot, and the gray ellipsis bubble winked underneath, indicating another text was in progress. Olivia couldn't help feeling relieved that she'd set the phone to vibrate the night before. She hadn't expected any interruptions today—no family members were going to call and wish her happy holidays—but she'd wanted her first Christmas morning with Amanda to be perfect. Texts from Alex, no matter how brief, would shatter the illusion almost as certainly as Beth Anne's unwanted presence already had.

Sighing, she read:

**Merry Christmas, Liv (and family)! I hope you're having a wonderful day.**

**Are we still on for New Year's?**

**. . .**

**. . .**


	19. Chapter 18: Nor the Demons Down Under the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, the good times are about to hit a major bump, so buckle up, y'all. Strong **TW** for child abuse **/TW** in this chapter. I'M SORRY. All I can say is... it wasn't written lightly, and it is important to the plot. Reviews are love.

## CHAPTER 18: Nor the Demons Down Under the Sea

**. . .**

_**Merry Christmas, Liv (and family)! I hope you're having a wonderful day.** _

_**Are we still on for New Year's?** _

_**. . .** _

Several seconds dragged on as Olivia waited for the third message to pop up, but when it didn't come, the ellipsis abruptly disappearing, she sighed again and turned off the screen. She would respond to the texts later, when she wasn't holding her sleeping child in her arms and watching another drive matchbox cars across the rugged terrain of two dog rumps. Maybe if she waited until tomorrow, Alex would get the hint that today was about family (and Beth Anne).

"Who was that, Mommy?" Noah asked, forgetting his big boy status as he did donuts on Frannie's belly with one of the cars. The dog rolled onto her back, luxuriating in the attention as if she were receiving a full-body massage. "Work?"

No matter how innocent the question, it still tugged painfully at Olivia's heart. She loved her job, but the time it took away from her children was something she could never get back. And yet, the work was so interwoven with her soul, so symbiotic to her existence, if removed she feared she might wither up and die. On the rare occasions she allowed herself to weigh the costs, she didn't like the results very much. Her son's resignation to it—that the job came first, even on holidays—only worsened the guilt.

"Nope," Olivia said, and discarded the phone on the couch cushion beside her with exaggerated finality. She grinned broadly at Noah when he eyed her in surprise. "Not today, baby boy."

"Mom."

"Oh, right. Sorry." Olivia cleared her throat, straightened her posture, and assumed a gruff military tone. "Not today, young man."

"You're so weird," Noah said, but he failed to keep a straight face when she retaliated by stretching out her foot and tickling him with her toes. A few moments later he helped her to stand when she tried to get up without disturbing Matilda, and he hurried ahead to sweep his Hot Wheels aside so she wouldn't slip on one as she carried the sleeping toddler back to her bedroom.

 _Yeah_ , she thought, and smiled to herself on her way down the hall, _the kid was gonna turn out all right._

When Olivia returned to the living room, Noah was seated on the couch, his Christmas haul abandoned in favor of some video game or another on her cell phone. Normally, she limited his time on electronic devices and she didn't like him to use her phone without asking—they had rules about that, ever since he'd taken her old phone to school with him, leaving her without a way to call for help when Amelia and Calvin made their move—but she decided to let it slide for now. It was Christmas.

Just then, as Olivia contemplated joining him on the sofa to see how much cuddle time she could steal under the guise of wanting a video game tutorial, Jesse trotted into the room and declared, "Grammy's mad at you again." And with that update delivered, as dispassionately as a newsy announcing the day's headline on a street corner, the little girl scurried over to claim Noah's racetrack.

"Shit," Olivia mumbled under her breath. Neither of the kids heard it this time, but she felt bad anyway. She felt bad in general, standing there willing herself to go to the kitchen and straighten things out with Beth Anne. Although, what there was to straighten out, she honestly didn't know.

It was Serena all over again—her anger and resentment about so much more than Olivia, but focused solely on her for reasons she didn't quite understand. To Olivia's embarrassment, she realized her stomach hurt like it used to when her mother was on a rampage. She would rather do just about anything than confront Beth Anne right then; she would rather play with her kids and be present for them in a way Serena never had been for her, even on the best days.

Instead, she went to the kitchen. She couldn't leave Amanda to face her angry mother alone. She knew how terrifying that could be.

As she approached the kitchen archway, lingering outside it only for a second—but it was a second too long—she overheard her future mother-in-law say something that took her back nearly forty years on the spot.

"—shouldn't be surprised, with her history of violence. It's a mistake to marry her, Amanda. How can you love someone like that, after all those years with your father?"

**. . .**

" _How can I love someone who was conceived by a monster, Meg?" Serena asked, whispering. So, she wasn't drunk, then. She never remembered to whisper when she'd had one too many._

One too many, _Olivia scoffed to herself._ More like five too many. Ten. Sixty. A million. _She looked down at the Oreos arranged into a chocolate-scented smiley face on the big white plate, two tall glasses of milk protruding like antennae on either side of the tray that held the late night snack. No way could she stomach the cookies or the milk now._

_It was a stupid idea, anyway. What had made her think Serena would want to spend time with her? She never had in the past fifteen years, and a plateful of her favorite treats wasn't going to change that. Oreos dunked in milk (Olivia had even remembered the forks, so they could jab the tines into the cream filling and not end up with soggy wafers), no matter how delicious, weren't going to magically make her mother love her after all this time. Nothing would._

_At least she had a little context for the hatred now. (Context. That was a Serena word. She would be pleased Olivia could use it correctly.) There had been passing references to her father over the years—"He's dead, Olivia," being the most common—but they were enough for her to deduce that her mother hated him too. She had tried to weasel more information out of Serena during a few of her binges, hoping the alcohol would loosen the woman's tongue, but all it had loosed was her anger and, on one particularly bad evening, her fists._

_Until that moment, standing outside the cracked open door of her mother's study with a tray of stupidly smiling cookies in her idiot hands, she hadn't known her father was a monster. In Olivia's dreams, her mother often chased her—screaming, throwing, hitting—the closest thing to a boogeyman she had ever known. If Serena Grace Benson considered someone else a monster, then they must be the worst human being on earth. And Olivia was just like him in her mother's eyes._

_No wonder she was so unlovable, so despised. God, she couldn't even stand the sight of her own ungainly hands gripping the tray handles. She was some kind of abomination. Like_ Rosemary's Baby _, a movie she'd watched last Halloween. Ironically, it had first been released the year she was born._

_Skin crawling with disgust at her very existence, Olivia threw the tray and all its contents to the ground, needing it to be away from her. Everything needed to be far, far away from her._

_When the plate and both glasses shattered on the hardwood floor in the hall, splashing milk onto the walls and study door like whitewash, the Oreos vaulting into the air and then skittering like black mice in different directions, Serena cried out in surprise. "What the hell?" she demanded, leaping up from her desk chair. The clattering tray had pushed in the study door, and Olivia stood in full view of the doorway and the mess at her feet. She barely remembered making it, though the milk was seeping into her slippers and her hands were still poised to throw._

" _Meg, I'm going to have to call you back. There's been a . . . accident," Serena said, and hung up the phone._

A accident _, Olivia thought, unable to suppress a small smile. She had startled Serena into using the wrong article in a sentence. It wasn't much, but it felt like_ an _accomplishment. Finally, she had her mother's attention—boy, did she ever—and she'd grammatically outfoxed the English professor. Outfoxed. That was an Olivia Benson word._

" _Olivia Margaret, what in God's name did you do?"_

_Olivia stood there trembling in her wet socks and the pink satin slippers she liked because they resembled ballet shoes, and suddenly she hated everything._

_She hated how her mother overpronounced the vowels in her name; might as well be synonymous with Beelzebub, the way Serena said it. She hated the damn name itself—the kids at school sometimes called her Olive Oyl, because she was tall, lanky, and dark-haired. "Where's Popeye?" they teased, scrunching up one eye and imitating that dumb laugh. "Uck-uck-uck-uck-uck!" And Margaret was an old lady name. (That had been her namesake on the phone. Aunt Meg. Not a real aunt, just a professor friend of her mother's, but the closest thing they had to family outside this two-person hellhole Serena had trapped them in.)_

_She hated that Serena said things like "what in God's name" though she always told Olivia no such person existed. She hated Oreos, her dumb pink slippers, her inability to stop shaking, and partially cracked study doors that carried private conversations into hallways. But most of all, she hated her mother._

That's right, the feelings are mutual, bitch.

" _What the fuck do you care?" Olivia snapped, not exactly sure what was coming out of her mouth until she heard it aloud. It sounded right, she decided. And if not, there was nothing to be done about it now. You made your bed, now lie in it, Liv. (Another bit of motherly wisdom Serena often shared when Olivia asked for help.)_

"Excuse me? _" Serena looked dumbfounded, but not in a way that suggested shock or hurt feelings. Olivia had never spoken to her like that before, but rather than show surprise—or maybe even concern for her trembling daughter who was covered in milk and surrounded by broken glass—she acted as if there were no reason for such an outburst. And she was pissed about it. "Who do you think you're talking to, young lady? I am your mother, and you will speak to me with respect."_

_Olivia snorted in disgust. Fifteen years of playing the good girl, the dutiful daughter, were collapsing in on her like an imploding building. Fifteen years of choking down Serena's bullshit because a drunk mom was better than no mom, and maybe the booze made her unable to love. But no, it couldn't be blamed on the alcohol anymore. Olivia had heard it with her own two ears. She was the poison in the bloodstream._

" _Some mother. You think you don't drop things when you're stumbling around blind drunk? I clean up your messes all the time, Mom. I've picked glass out of your forehead and washed barf out of your hair." Olivia grabbed a hank of her hair and showed it to Serena._ (So different. So dark.) _"Remember the time you pissed yourself, and I had to wipe it up and change your clothes like you were a goddamn baby? Oh wait, you probably don't. You were hitting the sauce pretty hard that night."_

_That had done it. Serena was staring at her with such a wounded expression, Olivia's heart began to ache. She'd thought she would stop, if only her mother would show some kind of emotion other than contempt. But she was wrong._

" _I'm surprised you even know who my father is," Olivia spat, frightened by her own meanness and how good it felt to hurt someone else. She had stopped trembling. Her mother, on the other hand, quaked from head to foot. "You sure you didn't just get wasted, bring him home and screw him in the living room, then forget who he was the next day?"_

_Something shifted in the air during the silence that followed. Olivia couldn't place what it was, but the sensation reminded her of those letters that flipped over to display location names and flight times on the departure board at airports. A great shuffling, much confusion, and in a blink, everything had changed._

_She heaved a weary sigh and knelt down to gather up the glass shards and the crumbly Oreos that hadn't rolled out of sight. Someone had to clean the mess up and judging by the dead look in her mother's pallid eyes, she would be no help. It was a little frightening, that look, as if she were staring right through Olivia. Tonight was going to be a vodka-straight-from-the-bottle kind of night. Better to get out before it started._

_No sooner had the thought formed in Olivia's mind than she felt it yanked away by a hand jerking her upright by the hair. She didn't have time to cry out in pain or fear. The slap came too fast. It always did, but Serena had never pulled her hair like that before. She had never hit Olivia while sober, either. She hit much, much harder without the alcohol slowing her reflexes._

_Speechless, Olivia clutched her cheek and stumbled back a step, barely noticing the sliver of glass that pierced her heel through the soft pink slippers. She was too frightened by her mother's face. Something was very wrong with it. The eyes weren't just dead, they were practically absent altogether. She didn't even blink and she was breathing funny, heaving, as if she'd run a long distance, as if she were swelling in size. There were long strands of brown hair cobwebbed around her fingers._

" _M-Mommy?" Olivia whispered, unaware of the regression. Sometimes, when Serena was passed out cold, Olivia still called her "Mommy," longing to go back to a time when she had been loved and cherished—a time that didn't exist. Sometimes she still crawled into bed with Serena and pulled the woman's limp, lifeless arms around her._

_There was nothing limp or lifeless about the arms as they reached out for Olivia now. She spun on her heel, driving the glass deep—that finally made her shriek, a steel jolt shooting up her leg—and trying to flee into the hall. When she heard the crunch, she wasn't sure if it was Serena's heavy, hard-soled clogs stepping on broken glass or her own skull hitting the wall outside the study. The shove from behind had propelled her through the doorway and headfirst into the exposed brick. She might have blacked out when she hit the floor, but it couldn't have been for very long, because the next thing she knew, Serena stood above her in a sea of stars._

" _Mom," Olivia whimpered, beginning to cry. She hated to do that, but no matter how hard she tried to hold back tears, they always came. It was weak and stupid; it was what her mother did whenever she was drunk and remorseful._

" _Don't you ever—" Serena punctuated each word with a slap, the opposite hand fisted into the front of Olivia's nightgown, holding her up to receive the blows. "Not_ ever _. You are mine, do you hear me? Not that monster's. You— you— monster!"_

_The ringing in Olivia's ears drowned out some of the screaming, but not all. She tasted blood on her lips, hot and rancid, but couldn't tell if she'd bitten herself during the fall or if it was a result of being smacked across the face. Her head hurt badly, and it was difficult to think with Serena on top of her, screaming about monsters and hitting so hard, so fast. She knew she needed to get away—that her mother was not her mother right then—but the more she clawed at the fist clenching her nightgown, the higher it moved, the tighter it grasped._

_And then it was around her neck, both hands squeezing, thumbs pressed against her windpipe. Wildly, Olivia thought of an old Hitchcock movie she'd seen where Grace Kelly was being strangled on a desktop, her hand reaching out into the void. That same void was in Serena's eyes as she choked Olivia._

" _You're mine," Serena said through gritted teeth, her voice low, guttural. (_ Animalistic, that was a good word for) _Her fingers, iron around Olivia's throat. "Mine."_

_Fighting to remain conscious, Olivia grabbed for her mother's sleeve, tugging frantically, pushing uselessly at the arm inside it. Oh my God, she was about to die on the floor in her nightgown, feet soaked in milk and blood. Who would clean up all the glass and cookies then? Who would take care of Serena?_

_She reached higher and touched her mother's face just as the darkness took hold. Then, from some great distance, she heard a shrill gasp and ("Oh Jesus, oh honey! Oh my God, Livvy, wake up. Oh, Jesus!") felt her shoulders being shaken roughly. But she was tired and wanted to ("Wake up, Olivia. Please, it's Mommy")._

_Olivia coughed until her throat not only ached but burned like fire. She thought she might never stop, that the coughing would be what asphyxiated her, rather than her mother's bare hands. They were gone now—and so was Serena, Olivia noted through a veil of tears. She wasn't surprised. Serena left her at every available opportunity in life, why would it be any different in death?_

_But just as Olivia finally took a whooping breath inward, her lungs gobbling up the oxygen, she saw Serena reappear at the end of the hall, something in her hand. A bottle? A hammer? Whatever it took to finish the job, huh, Ma?_

_Desperately afraid, Olivia dragged herself backward by her hands. She was on the rowing team at school, and the action wasn't much different from stroke drills. Only, now she kicked out hard with both feet, trying to ward Serena off. "N-no! Puh-please—"_

" _Stop, Livvy. I'm not going to hurt you," Serena said, her voice several octaves higher than any of her other intonations: the lecture hall drone, the angry mother bark, the drunken slur. She easily sidestepped Olivia's kicks and crouched beside her, setting aside the glass of vodka in her hand. So, that's why she had left—to get a drink._

_She flinched back when Olivia jerked away from her approaching hands, which she held up like she was at gunpoint. "I won't hurt you, Livvy. I just want to make sure you're . . . "_

_Olivia gazed at her, wonderingly. Make sure she was what? Still breathing? Not concussed? A girl, not a monster? (Well, the last was debatable. Those horrible things she had said . . . )_

_Her mother must have seen it too, because she quickly looked away and picked up the glass, unable to meet Olivia's eye when she handed over the booze._

" _I d-don't want th-th-th—" Olivia couldn't make her lips work properly, nor could she stop coughing. Her throat hurt too much to speak anyway, as did her head. She settled for feebly pushing the vodka away, her face turned._

_Serena's perplexed expression soon gave way to realization when she glanced at the clear liquid she offered. "It's water, honey," she said softly, placing a palm at the back of Olivia's head and bringing the drink to her lips. "Try to take a sip. Careful. Careful."_

_Despite the warnings and her mother's tentative assistance lifting the glass—two would forever be missing from the set, from that night on—Olivia still choked on the water, spluttering it everywhere and spilling most of it down her front._

" _I'm sorry," she whimpered, when Serena set the glass a safe distance away and studied her with a hard look—at her hair and forehead, her lips and neck, her soaked nightgown and slippers._

_Serena suddenly pulled her close, holding her so tight it was painful. Olivia gasped and struggled to get loose, until she realized her mother was hugging, not hurting her. It was an odd sensation; hugs from Serena were few and far between the past couple of years. The taller and more mature Olivia got, the less physical affection her mother seemed to show. Not that there had been much to begin with. She had seldom tugged Olivia halfway into her lap as she did now, and it was unheard of for her to press her face into Olivia's hair and openly weep. But the thing she had never, ever done, for as long as Olivia could remember, was apologize and mean it._

" _No, honey, I'm sorry. My God, I'm so sorry I did that to you," Serena cried, smoothing Olivia's hair with long, repetitive strokes. She kissed the top of Olivia's head over and over again, her muffled words not making much sense: "I didn't see you. I couldn't— I thought you were . . . someone else. I'm so sorry."_

_Olivia started to lean back, to gaze up and ask who Serena had thought she was, but that might break the spell—the one it had taken almost dying to help cast. Instead, she nodded and wrapped both arms around her mother's waist, wondering if she'd ever be able to let go. "I know," she said soothingly, the way Serena talked to other people's children, to her friends when they were upset. "It's not your fault, Mom. You wouldn't hurt me on purpose."_

_What Olivia had agreed with, she didn't quite know. And she didn't care. Her mother was holding her, was concerned for her, and it was all that mattered._

_Until that moment, she had never felt so loved._

**. . .**


	20. Chapter 19: Get Thee Behind Me, Satan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a late start with this chapter again, sorry. I'll make this quick. Wow, I didn't win Serena any friends with chapter 18, huh? :P I'm a little curious if it's clear that she was having a PTSD-related flashback when she attacked Olivia, though. Not that I think that excuses what she did. At all. That chapter broke me a little too, and I have no love for Serena whatsoever, I just wondered if the flashback came through in the writing. Ok, I'll leave you to ch19... let the competition for Worst Mother Ever continue...

## CHAPTER 19: Get Thee Behind Me, Satan

**. . .**

"—shouldn't be surprised, with her history of violence. It's a mistake to marry her, Amanda. How can you love someone like that, after all those years with your father?"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? Liv is nothing like that piece of shit. She's nothing like any of you people. She's better than y'all. And me. Hell, if anything, she's too good for me."

"She certainly thinks so."

"Okay, Mama, you know what? You can just go—"

During Amanda's entire rebuttal, her voice had steadily risen, and now it hit a pitch that was dangerously close to shouting. Olivia recognized it as pure, unbridled rage, from the few times she had witnessed it coming off of the slender blonde like heat haze over summer asphalt. It was time to intervene, though Olivia wanted more than ever to turn and flee.

( _"—with_ _her history of violence. . ."_ What the hell had Beth Anne meant by that? And how did she know about it?)

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Olivia stepped around the archway  
( _Click._ )  
just as Amanda was about to tell her mother exactly where she could go. When the two blonde women saw her round the corner, the entire room went still. The letters shuffled and flipped, and suddenly everything had changed.

For a moment, Olivia felt as if her slipper socks squished with milk and blood. She looked to Amanda wistfully, as if she had already lost her.

( _"—she's too good for me."_ )

"Liv." Amanda stood up abruptly from leaning against the sink, parallel to her mother, who had claimed the oven as her own. The older woman stood in front of the appliance with her arms akimbo, like a bouncer guarding the entrance to an exclusive club. She shot a nasty glare at Olivia when Amanda went to her without a glance back.

"Baby, why don't you go back on in with the kids?" Amanda suggested in a hushed tone, trying to usher Olivia from the room with a gentle hand under the elbow. "I can take care of this. Go on now."

"Let her stay, Amanda. This is her home after all, right, Captain?" Somehow, Beth Anne even managed to make that sound like an insult. As if being able to afford the apartment was shameful in some way. Olivia hated that she momentarily felt the urge to apologize. She'd felt the same way the first time she took her mother on a tour of her alma mater Siena college, a safe, beautiful campus where girls could walk from the library to the dorms in the middle of the night with no fear.

Truth be told, she had felt that way her entire goddamn life. Her very existence was a reason to apologize. Conceived by a monster. History of violence. A mistake.

"Your home, your furniture, your pictures on the walls. Why, I bet even these pretty little dish towels are yours, aren't they?" Beth Anne held up the tea towel with the peony design that looked hand-painted on, then slung the cloth over her shoulder. "I know my daughter didn't pick out much of anything in this apartment. Tell me, Olivia, what here _does_ belong to Amanda?"

If they were being totally honest, Olivia had chosen the towels and most of the artwork that hung in the apartment, but much of it she'd already owned before living with Amanda. The detective herself had given Olivia free rein over decorating when they moved in, and happily spent her time drinking beer, keeping the kids entertained, teasing that every picture frame should be moved "a little to the left," and feeling Olivia up from behind whenever her back was turned. There were few things in their home that Olivia didn't consider equal parts hers and Amanda's, including their children.

But as Olivia was still recovering from the shock of the ridiculous accusation, Amanda gave up on leading her from the room and suddenly rounded on Beth Anne. "What the hell do you even know about it?" she asked, as loudly as she dared with the kids so close by. There was Christmas music playing on the television, but the volume had been turned down low during the gift exchange. "I hate decorating, so of course Liv picked out some of that stuff. But she's not selfish like you 'n Daddy. We share everything: rent, food, cars, parenting. Unlike your shitty marriage was, ours is a partnership."

Olivia felt a faint surge of pride at the vehemence with which Amanda defended their relationship. It was a relief, after the exchange she'd overheard prior to entering the room, and after her own exchange with Amanda weeks earlier, about her supposed desire for wealth. She had never thought of her fiancée as anything less than equal in all aspects—except officer rank.

She took Amanda's hand lightly and stepped forward to stand beside her, a united front. But the sense of victory was short-lived when Beth Anne rejoined her daughter's upbraiding.

"At least my marriage was real," said the woman, in a low, thrumming voice. She sounded like a rattlesnake ready to strike. Even her stance—bent forward at the waist to project the poison she oozed, head out in front of her body—made her appear as if she might spring forth from a deadly coil at any moment. "You can dress yours up however you please, but y'all will still just be playing house. In the eyes of the Lord, you will never be married to _her_."

It took most of Olivia's inner strength to hold back the hateful replies that came to mind, and a little of her physical strength to hold back Amanda, who took a threatening step towards her mother. The blonde liked to be in someone's face when she yelled at them, Olivia knew that from personal experience; however, what she knew of mother-daughter arguments was far more brutal than mere shouting. She didn't really care what Amanda did to the other woman right then, but she wouldn't let Beth Anne lay a finger on her fiancée.

"Okay." Olivia put up her palm as if she were showing a weapon she was about to toss aside. She'd gone into hostage situations unarmed and negotiated with far worse offenders than a close-minded Southern zealot who thought fringed vests and big hair were still the height of fashion. She could handle this.

"Look, Beth Anne, I don't know what your problem is with me, but I'm going to ask that you please keep it to yourself. You're in _our_ home—" She squeezed Amanda's hand, clasping the back with her free hand. "—and it's Christmas. You can go back to Georgia tomorrow and hate me as much as you like. Until then, let's just pretend to get along and enjoy the rest of the day. At least for the kids' sake. And Amanda's. We both want what's best for her, right?"

"And you think that's you, I suppose?" Beth Anne sneered. For an attractive woman, she could pull some downright ugly faces. Serena had been like that too, after awhile—as if her shriveled liver was rotting her from the inside out. What must be rotting inside Beth Anne to make her such a miserable bitch?

"I do." Olivia looked to Amanda with surety. The detective offered a faint smile in return, but it was apologetic and a little sad. Olivia recognized the expression all too well; Amanda was ashamed of her mother. "I love her with everything that I have, and I would do anything for her."

"Are you sure you don't just want to fix her like all those other poor little victims you're so fond of?"

"Excuse me?" Olivia did a double take, staring at Beth Anne in disbelief. At the same time, Amanda barked, "What?" so loudly that it drew a responding bark from Frannie in the living room. Under different circumstances, it would have been funny, but no one laughed now.

Beth Anne still wore her sickening smirk, though. She nodded with satisfaction, as if she had just won some small victory. A hand of cards at which she'd cheated, perhaps. "You were so keen the other day to tell me how damaged she is by the way her daddy and I raised her. I just hope she's more than a project to you. Wanting to help someone is no reason to marry them."

Outwardly, Amanda didn't flinch or even react much at all to the accusation, but Olivia felt the fingers entwined with her own tighten reflexively, sensed the body next to hers tensing up to absorb the blow. She tried to draw Amanda's attention towards her, but it stayed fixed on Beth Anne, eyes narrowed to flinty blue slits.

"I said no such thing." Olivia shook her head adamantly, first at Beth Anne, then at Amanda. She hated the older woman for making it necessary to defend herself to her fiancée. Those were the kinds of mind games Serena had liked to play, and part of the reason Olivia had never introduced her to anyone she dated. "Amanda, I never said that. I told her witnessing abuse can be as harmful to a child as experiencing it themselves. I do not think you're damaged. Or a project."

"I know, darlin'." Amanda's voice came out warm, though her expression remained ice cold, her eyes never leaving Beth Anne's smug face. "I told you my mama's a liar and you shouldn't believe a damn word she says. Ain't that right, Mama? Anytime somebody has somethin' better'n you have, you gotta try and tear it down. You're just jealous I found someone who loves me, and you never did. And you never will."

That finally made Beth Anne's shitty little grin falter. She removed the tea towel from her shoulder, twisting and folding it into a cudgel, which she struck repeatedly against her palm. (Amanda had the same habit, usually with hairbrushes, folders, or anything that went _thwap_.) "How can you speak to me like that? I'm just looking out for my baby girl. I don't want you to get hurt again, the way you did in Atlanta. Think, honey. Why can't she find someone her own age and rank? She's using you, just like that man—"

"Mama, shut your goddamn mouth," Amanda growled, each word separate and filled to bursting with rage, like infuriated ticks about to pop. "You never gave one iota what happened to me in Atlanta, so don't go pretending like you care now. You know who does care? Who has been there for me when things are bad? Olivia. She would never hurt me. Ever."

"Violence begets violence, Amanda. You should know that better than anyone." Beth Anne wagged the bunched up towel, its pretty pink blossoms crumpled beyond recognition, at Amanda. "And the way she drinks . . . "

There was that word again—violence. All the euphoria Olivia had felt at the conviction in Amanda's words, the certainty of her belief in Olivia, was gone in a rush. For one mad second, watching Beth Anne smack the dish towel against her thigh, Olivia thought the woman was referring to  
( _"I want you dead. I want a bullet in your head. I want you in the ground."_ )  
beating Lewis with the metal rod. Surely Amanda hadn't told her mother about that?

But no, she'd said violence begat violence. That old Biblical term for fathering offspring had always sounded to Olivia like a cat hacking up a hairball. _Begat_. She had indeed been begotten by a rapist, but there was only one way Beth Anne could know about that, too. Then again, the tag line about drinking tied it back to Serena. Even Amanda didn't know the extent of that violence, though. Olivia hadn't wanted to trigger her with stories of physical abuse.

The stories she had shared were in confidence, so why the hell did this awful woman know about any of them? Olivia had become more guarded about the details of her conception and her mother's alcoholism since they were turned into water cooler conversations, thanks to Stabler, Cragen, and Munch. She'd thought those days were over.

"Yes, I know all about your mean alcoholic mama," Beth Anne said with triumph, when Olivia glanced uncertainly at Amanda. "How she knocked you around and blamed you for—"

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Amanda roared, her cheeks blazing as red as her robe. She had barely gotten the last syllable out before she spun in Olivia's direction, holding tight to the hand that had gone lax in hers. She scooped Olivia's other hand up with it, clasping them together uncomfortably, the engagement ring pinched between Olivia's fingers. "I didn't mean to tell her about your mom, I swear. It slipped out that day we came home from the hospital. You remember all the drugs they had me on. I didn't know what I was saying until it was already out. And the only thing I told her was that your mama drank and— and she hit you sometimes. I'm sorry, Liv. But that's _all_ I said."

The desperation in Amanda's eyes, in her voice, was the only proof Olivia needed. She didn't like that Beth Anne had gotten those lacquered claws into such a painful part of her past, but if Amanda said it was an accident, Olivia believed her. She would believe her fiancée over the horrid older Rollins woman any day. "I know, love," she said, rubbing her thumbs across the backs of Amanda's sharply clenching fingers. "It's okay, you don't need to explain yourself."

In the doorway behind them, a small voice spoke up, cutting through the tension in the air like a swift, glancing  
( _straight razor_ )  
scalpel. It sliced at Olivia so surely, she half expected to look down and see blood. Instead, she turned to find her son holding up her iPhone and asking, "Mommy, who's Alex Cab- Cuh- . . . C-A-B-O-T? Cuh-bot? Is that one of your officers?"

"Ask why Mama yelled," Jesse stage whispered from around the corner. Fleetingly, her hand appeared, goading Noah on with a quick poke to the shoulder, before darting out of sight again.

"Jesse Eileen, you better march your buns right back into the living room, missy," Amanda called out, more for show than actual scolding. She meant business, though, and Jesse knew it—the sound of her socked feet pattered off toward the living room a second later. "Hey, Noah, why don't you go on in there with her too, bud?"

She reached out to ruffle the boy's hair, but he dodged her hand, without taking his eyes off Olivia. Those somber, inquisitive blue eyes that were so much lighter than her own.

"Who is he?" Noah asked.

"Alex is a girl, honey," Olivia said hastily, hoping that detail would be sufficient enough to send the boy on his way. Living in a house with six females—four human, two canine—and taking dance classes, which had a much higher girl to boy ratio, had generated in Noah only minor interest in the feminine. Most days, girls were merely tolerated. "Just an old friend of Mommy's."

"Oh. Okay." Noah sounded disappointed, his shoulders sagging as he handed Olivia the phone. "She texted you. It said: 'Can't wait to see you in a few days.' And then another one with a bunch of heart emojis."

A terrible feeling rose up inside of Olivia, so unfamiliar that it took her a moment to recognize what it was—she was blushing. All eyes were on her, awaiting a response, and for some reason her cheeks were aflame. She cursed inwardly, accepting the phone from Noah and telling him to go play. He cast a wary look past Olivia at the other two women in the kitchen, namely Beth Anne manhandling the tea towel over by the stove, then he reluctantly trudged off for the living room. Olivia hated to think about what he might have overheard before making his presence known. She didn't want her children to find out about their dead alcoholic grandmother, about the verbal or physical abuse, not now or any time in the foreseeable future. Maybe ever.

"Why the hell's Alex texting you on Christmas Day?" Amanda asked, breaking into Olivia's thoughts. There was a hint of annoyance in her voice, a perturbed frown upon her face. She didn't let go of Olivia's hand, but held it so limply she might as well have. "And why's she seeing you in a few days?"

Olivia peered sidelong at Beth Anne, indicating that she didn't want to address the topic in front of the older woman. Ignoring the signal, Amanda released Olivia's hand this time, crossing both arms over her chest. Meanwhile, Beth Anne was eating it up, her delight at the budding conflict obvious, even from the corner of Olivia's eye. She was wringing the tea towel again, and practically bouncing up and down like a spectator in the stands of a rousing sporting event.

"I don't know why she's texting me today," Olivia said, keeping a low volume, in the hopes that Beth Anne might not discern every word. (Fat chance. She was craning her neck out so far, she resembled a cobra, wavering back and forth over a snake charmer's basket. _There's a place in France where the ladies wear no pants . . ._ ) "But she wants us to get together on New Year's. The three of us. I told her I needed to run it by you before I agreed to anything."

"Oh." Amanda let her arms fall back down at her sides, but she didn't reach for Olivia again. Instead, she thrust both hands into the pockets of her robe, which was so oversized and fluffy, it looked to be consuming her by degrees. All that remained visible was her bright, blonde head. Under better circumstances it would have been an adorable sight. "Okay."

"A.C. Alex Cabot," Beth Anne said thoughtfully, and rather gloatingly, if Olivia wasn't mistaken. Sure enough, one glimpse at the older woman's face revealed a fiendish little grin that was recognizable from seeing it on Amanda's face whenever the detective got something over on Olivia. The only difference was the malevolence behind this expression. "Something blue."

Immediately, Olivia recognized the caption from the note Alex had included with those damn earrings; Amanda did as well, her jaw clenching noticeably at its mention. But how Beth Anne knew anything about it was the real question.

"She's got pretty penmanship, I'll give her that." Beth Anne finally tossed the tea towel onto the countertop and bent down for a peek inside the oven. A delectable aroma of turkey meat, sage, and green bean casserole wafted out of the open door, settling over the kitchen in a rich, mouthwatering haze. "Nice perfume, too. Expensive. You do like your fancy, pretty things, don't you, sugar?"

Olivia wasn't certain to whom the question had been posed, until Beth Anne snapped the oven shut, righted herself, and gazed directly at her—or more precisely, at the watch on her wrist. "Save the sweet apple pie routine, Beth Anne," said Olivia, her patience finally reaching its limit. There were only so many snide remarks dressed up as cheerful quips that she could take, especially when they were intended to stir up trouble between herself and Amanda. "It's unbecoming in a woman your age. And since I can see you have no intentions of being civil, at least have the courage to say what you mean to my face. And stop calling me sugar."

A dark cloud passed over Amanda's features as she listened to her mother being called out. For one brief second, it appeared she might take up for Beth Anne, but when she finally did speak, her anger was focused on the same target at which Olivia had aimed. "Yeah, Mama, quit tryna make more trouble than you already have. What the hell do you know about Alex, anyway?"

"I know she sent a love note to your . . . _fiancée_ , who keeps it hidden away in her wallet where you won't see it. Right next to Mother’s Little Helper." Beth Anne delivered the news with vicious glee, pointing an accusatory finger at Olivia. "And now she and Little Miss Innocent there are sending flirty texts behind your back on Christmas Day."

"Are you kidding me?" Olivia asked, at first too stunned to be angry. But as the implications of Beth Anne's words sunk in, her temper and her pulse spiked dramatically. The kids' excitement over presents had given her no time for breakfast, other than a cup of coffee, and she suddenly felt so lightheaded she had to put her hand against the wall to remain steady. She was not going to pass out right now, goddammit; she was too pissed off. "You went through my wallet? My purse? What the hell is wrong with you? Those things are private. You had no right to touch them."

At thirteen, she had walked in on her mother reading her diary. Serena hadn't even apologized or tried to hide the violation, just stated that she was making sure Olivia hadn't gotten herself "into trouble." It would be at least two more years until Olivia understood what that had meant; four years after that for it to nearly come true. (And a couple more until it finally did.) But after that day with the diary, she'd learned that nothing was sacred to Serena, least of all her daughter's privacy. And nothing, it seemed, was sacred to Beth Anne Rollins. Least of all anything pertaining to Olivia.

"I don't hear you denying any of it," Beth Anne said coolly, another of her self-satisfied smirks in place. She had been up and dressed, her hair perfectly coiffed in that wife-of-a-televangelist style she favored, long before anyone else in the apartment awoke that morning. Standing there in her pearls, hands on her pencil-skirted hips, she looked far more in control than Olivia felt in her thermal reindeer pajamas and socks. "I think the more important question is, what exactly do you have going on with this Alex woman?"

"Mama." Amanda was shaking her head, pacing back and forth across the kitchen like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Every few steps she jammed her fists into the bottom of her pockets, as deep as they would go. "I swear to God . . . "

"Nothing," Olivia said, pronouncing the word with added weight and emphasis. She took a calming breath, removed her hand from the wall and pressed her palms together, using the prayerlike pose to gesture at Beth Anne. "You are way off base here. It's none of your business and I shouldn't have to explain anything to you, but that note came with a wedding gift, both of which I showed to Amanda. And I was not sending 'flirty texts' behind her back. I didn't even respond when Alex texted earlier, because today is about family. I have no designs on Alexandra Cabot whatsoever."

It would have been better not to include the former attorney's full name like that. In fact, it would have been better to leave off the final sentence altogether, but Olivia's inner editor was losing out to her frustration and intense dislike of Beth Anne. She wanted the woman out of her apartment. Now.

"Oh, Alexandra," Beth Anne repeated in a lofty, mocking tone. She rolled her hand in the air, imitating a queenly wave. "She an old flame of yours? Sounds more your speed than my Mandy does."

"Just because Daddy stepped out on you with every skank in town who'd spread her legs for him does not mean Liv'll cheat on me," Amanda said hotly, stopping directly in front of her mother, no more than two or three feet between them. Her fists were crammed so far into her pockets, the stitches in the robe threatened to pop. "She ain't like that. If you took the time to get to know her, you'd see."

"Honey, sooner or later they're all like that. You think someone as high-flown and power-hungry as she is won't get tired of you the second something better comes along?" Beth Anne motioned to Olivia with the revulsion of someone scrubbing bug guts off their windshield. Her eyes never strayed from Amanda. "You said it yourself—she's too good for you. She'll find another pretty young thing, one that's smarter, higher paid, and isn't content to just be a detective the rest of her life."

Olivia had barely registered the insults directed at her; she didn't care about those. It was the awful things Beth Anne said to Amanda that really hurt. She felt them as deeply as any of the cuts left on her soul by Serena's abusive words. Sometimes the words were worse than bruises and broken bones—those healed. But hearing your own mother tell you how worthless and unlovable you were did irreparable harm. She couldn't let that happen to Amanda. Not anymore than it already had.

Realizing she was frozen in place, scarcely daring to breathe as she awaited for  
( _you monster_ )  
a physical attack, Olivia forced herself to step forward, to open her mouth and speak. "You need to leave," she said with a calmness she didn't feel. Her hands were jittery and she balled them into fists at her sides to hide the shaking as she took another step closer to Beth Anne. "You're no longer welcome in our home. I suggest you apologize to Amanda, say goodbye to your grandchildren, then get your things and get out."

"Or what?" Beth Anne scoffed, but her gaze traveled down to Olivia's fists and she backed into the handle of the oven door, bouncing off at the hip. "You'll hit me? Go ahead, you'll only be proving my point to Amanda. That she should get out now, before you turn into a mean drunk just like  
your—"

Amanda, who had paused to lean against the counter and hold her side, taking one of the frequent breathers she'd needed since the shooting, startled them both by standing upright, grabbing Beth Anne's arm, and tugging her towards the doorway. "You heard Olivia. I want you outta here too. Right quick," she said, but only made it a short distance before Beth Anne dug in her heels and wrenched free of the grasp.

The woman jerked around with little heed for her daughter's freshly healed wound. Fearing Amanda would get reinjured by the swinging elbows and carelessly flailing limbs, Olivia stepped in, caught an arm, and used it to guide Beth Anne aside. She had subdued so many perps, wrestled so many distraught women away from physical confrontations, she knew the precise amount of force needed. For Beth Anne, who clocked in around five-five, maybe one hundred and thirty-five pounds, it didn't take much. But when she suddenly wheeled around and slapped Olivia across the face, she had more than enough strength to make it count.

Already unsteady on her feet, Olivia fell back a step from the harsh impact. She collided with Amanda, who gave a soft grunt and put out an arm to keep her from stumbling any farther. The stinging in her cheek bloomed into a far-reaching heat, as if a hot iron had been pressed to that side of her face. She clutched at it, too stunned to do much more than stare, blink, breathe. Of the handful of slaps she'd taken from someone other than her mother, Beth Anne's was a doozy. Not on par with Lewis, Calvin, or Orion, but definitely worse than the angry mothers she usually encountered.

She worked her jaw a few times, trying to shift it back into place. Sometimes it clicked while she chewed, but that wasn't nearly as bad as when it locked up on her, even just for a few seconds. Which injury or altercation had caused the misalignment she couldn't say. This latest blow certainly wouldn't do her any favors.

"What the fuck," Amanda uttered, sounding truly unable to fathom what she had witnessed. She rounded Olivia, peeling aside her fingers to examine the flaming cheek underneath. She touched the other cheek so softly it tickled, ducking down and peering up at Olivia with wide, concerned eyes. "Baby, are you okay? What the _fuck_ , Mama!"

"I'm okay. I'm okay." Though her face still ached like a bad sunburn, Olivia took her hand away from it and grasped Amanda at the elbows, hoping to prevent the severe backlash she knew was coming. She could hear it in Amanda's voice, feel it building up inside the small, slender frame that was already strung tighter than piano wire half the time. One good twist and it would snap. "It didn't hurt."

That was an outright lie, and the proof was right there on her cheek. It would be nice and pink for a few hours, a little swollen perhaps, and maybe even faintly bruised by tomorrow. But the thing that hurt most was her pride. Someone had gotten the jump on her again. And not even a particularly crafty or substantial someone—goddamn Beth Anne Rollins.

"She grabbed me! She has no right to put her hands on me," Beth Anne said, hugging herself about the arms and rubbing them as if she'd caught a chill. She shied away from Olivia, despite the wide berth between them.

Amanda dismissed the accusation with a disgusted wave and loud huff. "She barely touched you. You're the one who slapped her, you crazy—"

"Oh, that's right. Stick up for her." Beth Anne flung her arms out wide in a gesture that was almost identical to one Amanda often made, especially during arguments. There was a hardness to Amanda's anger that Beth Anne couldn't quite achieve with her flighty disposition and drama queen tactics, though. (For one brief second, Olivia wondered if that brutal edge came from Amanda's father.) "Just like you always did for him. No matter what he did to me, you just thought he walked on water, didn't you? Until you found out that he didn't. You'll find the same thing out about your precious Olivia one day."

Trembling with rage beneath the oversized robe, Amanda turned to retaliate. Olivia tightened her grip on the furious blonde, doing her best to hold on without using any real strength. She couldn't stand the thought of hurting Amanda too. "She's right, love. I shouldn't have taken her arm like that. Beth Anne, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you or—"

"Don't apologize to her," Amanda snapped, pulling free from Olivia's measured grasp. She shook her head, looking incredulous and a little betrayed by the attempt at reconciliation. "It's all part of her act. Everybody's out to get poor Beth Anne. Don't fall for it. You don't hafta put up with her shit like you did your mama's. Stand up for yourself for once, goddammit."

The last part stung almost as much as the slap. Amanda's anger at her mother's supposed weakness was deeply rooted in fear—of making the same mistakes, of becoming just like Beth Anne—and Olivia understood it well. She had the same fears about her own mother. But that didn't make it any easier to be lashed out at, or to know Amanda considered her in some way deficient. Incapable of standing up for herself. Too willing to lie back and take it.

With Beth Anne in the background grinning her damn hyena grin, so thoroughly elated to see Olivia getting bawled out, it was even more disheartening. It didn't anger Olivia, as it probably should have. Instead, she wanted to retreat, to find somewhere to take cover until the storm passed. That had been her solution as a child. But it wouldn't do for a captain, a mother, or a wife.

"I don't know what you're smiling about," Amanda said, catching sight of Beth Anne's expression at the same time Olivia did. She abandoned Olivia then, descending on the older woman like a hawk on a field mouse. At first it appeared she might repay the slap in kind, but she was only reaching for Beth Anne's shoulders, to spin her around and steer her from the kitchen. "I want you gone, ya hear? No more excuses. And you can forget comin' to the wedding. You're not going to ruin that for us, the way you just ruined Christmas. Get your stuff and get out."

As she spoke, Amanda had marched her mother towards the living room, Olivia following close at her heels. They stopped by the front door, in full view of Noah and Jesse, who were sprawled on the floor, coloring opposite sides of Noah's new sketch pad. The boy was proving to be quite the little artist, having inherited none of Olivia's atrocious drawing skills. He and Jesse looked up in unison, perhaps not fully aware of what had just transpired, but definitely noting Amanda's brusque voice.

"Amanda." Olivia tipped a subtle nod to the young and impressionable audience a few feet away. They had already overheard too much as it was, judging by their curious expressions and the torn out pages of scribbles that were scattered around them. As a kid, whenever things got especially tense at home, Olivia had taken her anxiousness out on paper too. She'd once cut every last smiling face out of her mother's magazine collection, drawn frowns on them in heavy black marker, and littered them around the apartment for Serena to find in all her favorite booze hiding spots.

Luckily, Amanda understood the toll that domestic disturbances took on children, too. She plastered on a tight-lipped smile and wiggled her fingers, beckoning the kids over. "Y'all come say goodbye to Grammy, now," she instructed with none of the usual good humor she reserved for them. Wary of her odd tone and its unnecessary volume, they hung back until she snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor in front of Beth Anne. "Hurry up, let's go."

"Where's she going?" Jesse asked, swiping the long blonde hair out of her face as she sallied forth, nightgown twisted around her skinny frame. The child always looked like she had just escaped an F5 tornado. "Who's gonna make dinner if she's not here?"

"Should I get Tilly so she can say goodbye too?" Noah asked quietly, lingering beside Olivia as his younger sister went on inquiring about Beth Anne's sudden departure while she was hugged and soundly kissed by her grandmother. He gazed up with uncertainty, his eyes drifting to Olivia's smarting cheek.

"No, sweetheart." Olivia gave him a sad smile and fluffed his unruly curls. She had so wanted to spare him—to spare all of her children—this exact type of family drama. Yelling, hitting, hatred, and the fear of not belonging. It had almost snuck in once, that dogged monster called Otherness which had plagued her since childhood, in the form of Sheila Porter. The woman who claimed Olivia was as insignificant to her son as she had been to her own mother. Not his "real" mom. Just like Serena could never see her as a real daughter, but the progeny of a beast. So different, so dark.

"Let's let Tilly sleep, okay? Go give hugs and kisses," Olivia said, sending Noah along with a pat on the back. Over his head, she stared Beth Anne down, silently daring her to reject his approach. It was one thing to push Olivia away; that was fine—she'd been rejected plenty of times before. But one false move with her son, and she would do more than drag the woman's suitcase to the front door, as Amanda did now; she would stuff Beth Anne inside of it and kick it down the stairs.

Beth Anne welcomed Noah into a warm embrace and bent forward to kiss him noisily on top of the head, as she had done with Jesse. Despite the occasional comment on his dancing ("Very light on his feet, or should I say 'in the loafers'"), she had shown the boy favoritism during her stay, for no other apparent reason than his maleness. "You be a good little man for your mommy now, mister," she said, clapping him affectionately on the rear. She shot a dirty look at Olivia. "Lord knows she needs some of that in her life."

"Mother," Amanda warned, parking the suitcase beside the door and glancing around for Beth Anne's purse. She spotted it dangling from one of the dining room chairs and trotted over to retrieve it, then seemed to have second thoughts, doubling back to rifle through her own bag that was crammed into one of the higher bookshelves where Jesse and Matilda couldn't reach.

Months earlier, after finding the contents of her purse—seldom used as anything beyond a place to store her wallet when she was home—strewn across the living room floor and an expensive lipstick strewn across their daughters' faces, Amanda and Olivia had both agreed on a better storage method for their bags. Olivia kept hers on a shelf above the credenza, where she could easily grab it on her way out the door. She went for it now, digging out her wallet and the fifty that was folded inside the zipper pouch. She held up her palm when Amanda, returning with a ten in hand, tried to object.

"Merry Christmas, sugar," Olivia said, affecting a cloyingly sweet delivery and smile as she proffered the bill to Beth Anne. If the older woman was going to accuse her of flaunting her wealth, might as well make good on it. Particularly if it got the bitch out sooner.

She only regretted that Amanda blushed slightly as she thrust out the ten, alongside the fifty. Beth Anne studied the offerings, smirking at the smaller bill, and plucked them both up like petals snatched from the eye of a daisy.

"I'll call you a cab," Amanda muttered, her posture stiff and resistant when Beth Anne pulled her into a tight, unrelenting hug. She scowled miserably as the woman took her by the chin, turned her face aside, and mashed a kiss to her cheek. "Other than that, you're on your own. Don't call me up in an hour, crying to come back. I appreciate you helping out like you did, but you won't be hearing from me or Liv anymore after this."

"You say that now, Mandy Jo, but one of these days you'll see that I was right. And when that day comes, you know where to find me." Beth Anne swung her purse strap onto her shoulder and extended the handle on her wheeled suitcase with a snap. "Best take out the green bean casserole before it burns. Turkey should be ready in another twenty minutes. Goodbye, Amanda. I forgive you for doing this."

Olivia expected the woman to breeze past her as if she didn't exist, but she was caught off guard once again, finding herself ensnared just as tightly as Amanda had been. It was much too forceful to be called a hug, and more resembled a chokehold when Beth Anne wrapped both arms around her shoulders, tugging her down until they were cheek to cheek. She drew back Olivia's hair with her clawlike fingers and, on the side not visible to Amanda, whispered in Olivia's ear, "I can see why your mama didn't love you. And just so you know, I'm the one who broke your watch, you arrogant, crazy bitch."

She cupped a hand to the back of Olivia's head and kissed her roughly on the same cheek she had slapped moments ago. Then Amanda was prying her off and practically shoving her out of the apartment. The detective slammed the door in her mother's face before the woman had time to get the final word, which she'd spun around quickly in the hallway to announce.

**. . .**


	21. Chapter 20: Trouble in Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized the halfway point of this story snuck past me unnoticed. I was thinking it was this chapter, but it was actually the previous one. Not a big deal, just wanted to mention it. And holy moly, y'all really don't like Beth Anne, I see. XD This might be the first time I've inspired murder with a fictional character, lol. Thanks for the comments on chapter 19! Putting a **TW** on this chapter for a scene of dissociation. **/TW** Happy reading. We're getting to my favorite part(s) of this story, guys—especially the chapters after this one. Are you excited?! I'm excited!

## CHAPTER 20: Trouble in Paradise

. . .

For several moments, they stared blankly at each other, Amanda bracing herself against the door as if she were barricading it, Olivia standing back awkwardly, elbows gripped in her hands, still leaning down to Beth Anne's height. She straightened gradually, but kept a protective hold on both arms, tucking them in tight at her waist and angling her body to one side. It occurred to her that it was the same stance she had used during arguments with Serena, when she tried to avoid being swung at or grabbed. She hastily let her arms fall to her sides and squared her shoulders. Try as she might, though, she couldn't unclench her fingers from the cell phone that felt soldered to her hand.

"What did she say to you?" Amanda asked, finally leaving her post at the door and coming to Olivia, gathering her hands, freeing the cell phone from their white-knuckled grip. She dropped it into the pocket of her robe and guided Olivia by her wrists towards the living room.

The children had wandered back to their artwork after bidding Beth Anne farewell. They stopped to observe now, as Amanda all but picked up Olivia and set her down on the sofa like she was no older than they. The blonde squatted in front of her, reaching for her mistreated cheek without touching it, wincing as she repeated, "What'd she say? Tell me."

"Nothing. It's not important." Olivia glanced past Amanda to the kids. She smiled at them, though it hurt to do so. Jesse happily resumed coloring, but Noah watched every move Amanda made, from lightly tilting Olivia's chin up with her fingertips to examine the redness to clenching her jaw in anger at whatever damage she'd discovered. She retracted her hand with a wounded expression when Olivia shied from the touch, not wanting him to see. The only thing more shameful than getting slapped across the face was that look in other people's eyes when they knew.

God help her, Olivia Benson would not be looked at that way by her son.

Following Olivia's gaze, Amanda caught on to the problem and spoke over her shoulder to the boy. "Hey, bud, why don't you go wet a cold washcloth for your mommy?"

"She's my _mom_ ," Noah said, and used the black crayon in his hand to scrawl **MOM** across his drawing in bold capital letters.

"I'm fine." Olivia waved off the request, hoping to curb the tension building up between Noah and Amanda. Normally they were the best of friends, always giggling over some inside joke or another, and finding new and appalling ways to gross out Olivia. (The most recent was daring each other to eat out of the dogs' dishes.) She hated that their relationship was being disrupted on her account. "I don't need a—"

"Go, son," Amanda said sharply, snapping her fingers and pointing towards the bathroom without a glance around. "You go on with him, Jesse. No sassin'."

"I'm not your son," Noah muttered. But he dropped his crayon heavily on the paper and took Jesse's hand when she scrambled up to obey her mother's gruff command. They trudged off to the bathroom together, dispirited and pitiful-looking in their rumpled Christmas jammies with their unbrushed hair.

"Wring it out good," Amanda called after them in a voice more suited for the bullpen than a joyful family gathering around the Christmas tree. Frannie scurried off to join the kids, ears flat against her head, tail tucked in. "Don't bring it back in here dripping all over the place."

Olivia stared fixedly at Amanda until she was done barking orders. She hadn't seen this side of the detective before—Amanda could be loud and short-tempered during lovers' quarrels, yes, but never with the kids—and she didn't much like it. "You didn't have to yell at them. It's Christmas, for God's sake. They're children."

"That wasn't yellin'." Amanda rolled her eyes, the expression on her face making it clear she thought Olivia was overreacting. "Y'all haven't heard yelling unless you've sat at the top of stairs, listening to the two biggest assholes in Loganville having it out over where to hide the Christmas presents."

 _Y'all haven't heard yelling_. . .

( _"You monster!"_ )

( _"I'll never let anyone else have you!"_ )

( _"You're lucky I even raised you at all, you ungrateful little bitch."_ )

"I know damn well what it's like to be yelled at," Olivia said, unable to speak above a whisper, for fear of what might come out. A quiver, a sob, a scream. Or just words she could never take back. Those were worst of all. "And I've taken hits a hell of a lot harder than what your mother can dish out. Don't you ever tell me I don't know what it's like."

Amanda almost seemed to deflate, her entire demeanor transforming in front of Olivia's eyes. Her complexion drained so thoroughly of color, it matched the white in her pajamas. Even her hair lost a bit of its sunny gleam, hanging flat and dull around her pallid cheeks, the same shade as wheat. The only thing that didn't change was her eyes; they remained bluer than the deepest ocean and more magnetic than the tide. Olivia easily could have been swept in, and lost, had she not averted her gaze. "I didn't mean—"

"You should call a cab for your mother," Olivia said with finality, turning her face away from Amanda as well, the sore cheek hidden from view. She focused her attention on Gigi, who had inched her way from the opposite end of the sofa a little at a time until she could rest her chin on Olivia's thigh. Olivia had been stroking the golden retriever's head without realizing it—for how long, she couldn't say. "Use my phone. You can read the texts from Alex while you're at it."

"Aw Christ, here we go." Amanda tried to push onto her feet from the squatting position, a move she normally could have executed with ease. But now she grunted softly and clutched at her abdomen, the other hand going to Olivia's knee for balance. She removed it quickly once she found her footing, and stood. "I don't want to read your goddamn texts from goddamn Alex. If you wanna go out with her for New Year's, I ain't gonna stop you. Hell, if you wanna screw her again for old times' sake, be my guest. She can be your freebie."

"My free— oh my God." Olivia gave an incredulous huff of laughter, absent any humor, and gazed up at the ceiling as if she might find a reprieve somewhere above her; that hand up Amanda had just needed, but Olivia had been unable to offer. Gigi whined and licked the fingers she was digging into her own thigh. "How many times do I have to tell you, I never slept with her? I never even kissed her. She was my _friend_ , Amanda. Jesus. And you wonder why I didn't want to tell you she'd called."

"So, you were hiding it then," Amanda said with something like satisfaction. Except she was shaking her head in disgust when she took the cell phone from her pocket, spinning it round and round between her fingers, jabbing it end over end against her hip. "For how long?"

Feeling suddenly despondent and just wanting the argument to be over, Olivia shrugged weakly. "What does it matter? I'll text her back later and tell her I'm— we're not coming." She finally released the clamplike grip on her leg when Gigi nosed underneath her arm, peering up with sad brown eyes that perfectly reflected how Olivia felt inside—small, worried, needy. Everything she had felt at five, at ten, at fifteen, and sometimes even now, in her fifties; all those years when she couldn't understand why her mother didn't love her. All that heartache.

"It matters. My fiancée's been lying to me for, what, a week? Two?" Amanda began to peck at the phone screen with her fingertip. She glanced back and forth between Olivia and the cell, swiping and scrolling and peck-peck-pecking. "Was it before I got shot? While I was laid up in that hospital bed? Come on, Liv, I wanna know."

As the phone dialed out, ringing hollowly on the other end, Olivia tried to catch her breath. Gigi was whining softly and letting out tiny yips more suited to a small breed puppy than a fully grown golden retriever. The dog sensed oncoming anxiety attacks better than Olivia ever could.

Even as the thought occurred, her heartbeat quickened and a heavy weight settled onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs. Stomach in knots, brain pulsating in its skull. Each throb was perfectly timed to the ticking of her watch. Amanda was talking to  
( . . . Alex?)  
the cab company, but she sounded far away, the words so confusing they might as well have been a foreign language. (Swedish, perhaps, to go with that white-blonde) was staring at Olivia strangely, a red specter as she paced in her long robe. With no feet she looked like she was

Floating. Olivia was floating up near the ceiling, watching herself on the couch, struggling to

Breathe. But the duct tape made it so hard to ( _"Take a breath, goddammit!"_ ) and she couldn't think because of the  
(vodka and pills and GHB and)  
pounding in her head. God, that pounding and the ticking and ( _"I can see why your mama didn't love you"_ ). It was driving her so crazy she could blow her own brains out just to make it

( _Click._ )

"Thanks, bye." Amanda ended the call and looked to Olivia expectantly, as if there had been no interruption at all. She did appear a little less worked up than before—from what Olivia's jumbled thoughts and blurred vision could make out of her, at least—but she still crossed her arms and waited. "Well?"

Counting backwards from five, Olivia grounded herself with the technique she'd learned long before Dr. Lindstrom and William Lewis; it dated back to the Lowell Harris years and her second attempt at therapy.

Identify five things you can see: Amanda, red, phone, Gigi, watch. Four you can touch: fur, ears, wet nose, paws. Three you can hear: panting, ticking, water running. Two you can smell: Turkey, a burning casserole. One you can taste: blood from biting her lip.

"She— she, um, called that night," Olivia said, and breathed in deeply through her nose, savoring the rush of air into her lungs. She exhaled it shakily, slowly, with barely enough force to blow the fluff off a dandelion. She didn't want Amanda to see her huffing and puffing in the middle of an argument. Not only because it was a sign of her own weakness, but also because she didn't want to win a fight that way. By being the damsel in distress. She was so goddamn tired of always _needing_.

"What night?" Though the question had come out gruff, demanding, the detective eyed her for a moment and grudgingly added, "You all right?"

No, she really wasn't. She could breathe now and the strange, frightening feeling of unreality had passed, but she was still quivering inside, heart and head pounding. She tried to concentrate on stroking Gigi's fur, on letting the repetitive motion and the dog's soft, cream-colored coat soothe her. Sometimes it worked better than others. This was not one of those times. She hadn't dissociated quite that badly since the hotel room, her hands bound to that unfamiliar bed, her mind replaying every single assault while Amanda unknowingly repeated the words of her rapists.

_Good girl. Nice girl. Rapists. Church._

Olivia hated that damn number game. "I'm fine," she said, gritting her teeth once the lie was out. She hated liars too.

"Oh, 'course you are. You're always fine, aren't you?" Amanda scoffed. It lacked some of her previous vehemence, but sure as hell didn't hurt any less.

The thing about Amanda Rollins was that she liked to fight, enough so that she sometimes instigated arguments or perpetuated them when they started to wane. Olivia had known it long before they ever became romantically involved—she'd witnessed the blonde ripping into Amaro, Carisi, and even Fin once in a while, and she'd been on the receiving end herself a few times at work. She attributed it to a childhood spent in a home where violence and constant bickering were the norm. Naturally that instilled a combative spirit in a kid, just as growing up with an alcoholic mother instilled familiarity and ease with another type of spirit. It was the comfort food they turned to when things were tough; it was the poison becoming the cure.

She tried to make allowances for her fiancée's issues—God knew Amanda made plenty of allowances for hers. But right now Olivia could not tolerate provocation or insults. "What the hell do you want from me, Amanda?" She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture, then dropped them back against Gigi. Goddammit if they weren't still shaking. "You're already convinced I'm a liar and a cheater, so I don't see what good explaining myself will do. You want an exact date and time? She called me that night we were shopping at the mall, right after you went out to the car. So, what was that, like, the thirteenth, around 6:30 PM? Is that specific enough for you?"

Olivia expected anger, retaliation, accusations that she had deliberately snuck around to play kissy-face over the phone with Alex (had she?), but instead Amanda looked suddenly ill. Her color waned again and she became very interested in the blank screen of Olivia's cell phone. She jiggled her leg beneath the fluffy robe, her knee batting at the material like a small animal trapped in a sack. A kitten taken to the river to be drowned.

Where Olivia had gone too far, she wasn't sure. Had it been her hard, unrelenting tone or just her bitchy attitude that caused the hurt she saw on Amanda's face? Or maybe her detective truly did believe she was nothing more than a liar and a cheater. And could Olivia really blame her? No matter how much she denied it, there had been something between her and Alex. Another lifetime ago, another Olivia Benson—young, eager, and so alone. It was before most of the assaults, when Olivia still believed she could walk through life unaffected by the past, the present, or anything yet to come; before she had realized you had to hold onto the ones who mattered most, otherwise they left you like all the rest.

That Olivia had wanted Alex Cabot badly. It had almost been humorous: the tough, take-no-prisoners detective, so smitten with and intimidated by the posh and willowy blonde attorney. She'd felt like a twelve-year-old again—desperate for love and attention, a kind word, a touch—whenever they spent time together. And they _had_ gone on dates, though neither of them ever acknowledged that was what the dinners out, the nights at the theater, the coffees sipped while strolling arm-in-arm and laughing softly at nothing in particular, actually were.

This Olivia couldn't imagine her life with anyone else but Amanda. Cabot was fantasy; Amanda was reality, and she'd been there for Olivia in ways the sometimes-attorney never had and never could. She understood Olivia—her trauma, her pain, but most of all, her heart—better than Alex ever cared to. Alex barely scratched the surface, but Amanda went straight to the bone.

Even now, in the midst of so much turmoil, Olivia wanted her fiancée close to her, wanted to reach out with no fear of rejection. "I'm sorry," she said thinly, still too shaken from the anxiety attack to fully convey her sincerity. "I shouldn't have said it like that. I know— I know you think there's something between me and Alex, but there just isn't. Not anymore. I love _you_ , Amanda. I want _you_."

The words didn't have their intended effect. As a matter of fact, Amanda looked even more upset than before. She was gripping the cell phone like she might suddenly rear back and hurl it against the wall. Her free hand was tucked protectively to her side, a habit she had formed in the wake of the shooting. "Liv, I . . . that night at the mall—"

"Are y'all still fighting?" asked a blunt little voice from behind Amanda, who turned abruptly to reveal their children peeking around the corner of the hallway. The speaker was Jesse, and she received a discouraging nudge from Noah. Matilda, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with a tiny fist, stood between them, fiery curls springing from her head in all directions.

"Mommy," the little girl declared, and toddled over to Olivia, raising her arms to be lifted onto the lap Gigi currently occupied. She had already clung primarily to Olivia before Amanda's injury, but after weeks of hearing that Mama couldn't pick her up, she now relied on Mommy for everything—especially cuddles. "Up hug."

"She's mad, Tilly, she doesn't want a hug," said Noah, lingering in the hall with a damp washcloth in his hands. It was still twisted into a pink, sluglike lump from being wrung out. There were large wet spots on the front of his pajama top and Jesse's nightgown.

Olivia had almost forgotten the pain in her cheek, thanks to the upheaval of emotion that followed the slap and the numbness from dissociating. It flared up now, the whole side of her face aching as she watched her two older children hang back with uncertainty. Or maybe that was just her heart. (How many times had she distanced herself from Serena like that, afraid to approach her while she was drunk as a skunk?)

"I'm not mad, sweetie," Olivia said gently, beckoning the children forward and nudging Gigi over to settle at her side. She cast an apologetic glance at Amanda, adding a meaningful, "At anyone."

The detective acknowledged the comment with a nod and a weak smile. "Yeah, c'mere, y'all." She dropped the cell phone back into her pocket, and though she still wasn't supposed to lift anything heavier than a cantaloupe, she scooped up Matilda, kissed her wild curls, and deposited her in Olivia's lap. "No one's fighting, y'hear? It's Christmas and we have to be nice, otherwise Santa will come back tonight and take away all these toys he brought ya."

"Nuh-uh!" cried Jesse, even as she gathered up an armload of gifts, preparing to stash them somewhere the jolly old elf would never find them. "He don't do that! Does he, Mommy?"

"No, honey, I think Mama's just pulling your leg," Olivia replied, hugging Matilda to her chest and practically melting as the child snuggled in, head tucked under her chin. Noah had been sweet and affectionate at this age, but busy and all boy; Jesse didn't hold still for more than a few seconds at a time. But Matilda was her mommy's little cuddle bug, always ready to give and receive love.

Noah had finally wandered into the room and right up to Amanda, thrusting the washcloth out at her with defiance. "You aren't nice. You're mean, and I heard you say bad words to my mom. Santa should take your presents too."

"Noah," Olivia began in a lightly scolding tone. She didn't want to correct him—not today, when he had already seen and heard too much—but she couldn't sit by and let him speak to Amanda that way, either. She knew firsthand just how hurtful his rejection could be. If they were ever going to be a happy, cohesive family, he had to accept Amanda as his parent too, not just his buddy and playmate. "Don't say—"

"No, Liv, it's okay." Amanda put her hand out, palm down, gently silencing the reprimand. She took the washcloth from Noah, turning it over in her hands several times and worrying the edges between her fingers. Though it must have pained her to do so—and she did wince a little at first—she lowered herself to one knee in front of the boy, meeting his sullen expression with a grave one of her own. "You're right, kid. I was being a jerk. I shouldn't have talked like that to you or your mom. I'm real sorry. Y'all aren't the ones I'm mad at."

"Who are you mad at?" Noah asked, more curious now than upset. He rocked his weight from foot to foot, using the momentum to inch closer to Amanda. When he was close enough, he let her hook an arm around his waist and pull him into a side hug.

"Is it Grammy?" Jesse guessed, busy trying to stuff her hands into the boxing gloves she had selected from the pile of toys scattered at her feet. Apparently she planned to challenge Santa to a match, should he return for her presents.

After a moment's hesitation, Amanda gave a light shrug. "It's . . . it's nobody, Jess. I just got mad. Forgive me?"

"Okay, Mama." Jesse went on throwing punches at the air, each jab too focused to be called willy-nilly. She had a definite target in mind. Santa would be wise to wear a cup next time he entered the Rollins-Benson household.

Turning back to Noah with a serious look that became sillier by the minute, Amanda asked, "Forgive me?" and puffed out her bottom lip until the little boy was giggling at her ridiculous, ever-expanding pout. "Pwetty pwease?"

"Okay, but don't make that face anymore." Try as he might to sound disgusted, Noah was laughing too hard to be convincing. He squirmed in Amanda's grasp as she puckered both lips to twice their normal size, making smoochy noises and squeaky inquiries ("What face?" "Give us a kiss?") while craning towards his retreating cheeks.

"Careful," Olivia warned, to no avail. She cringed during every twist and turn, half-expecting Amanda to let out a yelp of pain and drop to the floor clutching her abdomen. By the time the skirmish ended, Olivia was as out of breath as her son and fiancée.

"Hey, kid, help your ma— help me up, would ya?" Amanda extended her hand to Noah, who tugged it with all his strength, doing his best to hoist her upright. She did most of the work, but he beamed up at her proudly when she stood above him, ruffling his hair and smiling fondly. "Thanks, buddy."

Noah thought it over for a moment, shuffling his feet in a bashful manner, his hands clasped behind him. "You can call me son. I think I'll call you Ma," he said, then hurried off to draw more pictures, picking back up as if he had never left.

Outside of Olivia's own interaction with Noah, it was the first time she had witnessed such a sincere and loving resolution to conflict between a mother and child. Serena had seldom ever admitted any wrongdoing, and when she did apologize it was almost exclusively while under the influence. There were no playful kisses, no laughter. Nothing to reassure Olivia that her well-being mattered.

In that moment, she loved Amanda even more for giving that reassurance and security to her son. Their son.

"Here you go," Amanda said softly, when she perched on the arm of the sofa, folding the washcloth into a neat square. It was still too damp, wetting her fingers and the lap of her robe, but she paid no mind to the moisture as she worked. Ducking down for a closer look, she turned Olivia's face to the side and grimaced, her thumb compulsively strumming the jawline.

Amanda's features softened when Olivia caught her eye. "Here you go, darlin'," the detective murmured again, laying the cloth across Olivia's cheek with such tenderness it brought tears to her eyes. She'd never taken the time to care for a swollen, inflamed cheek before—at first, to assuage Serena's guilt by pretending she wasn't hurt, then as she got older, to prove how tough she was—but the cool compress did feel good. It occurred to her that the opposite must be true for Amanda; she knew what to do because she had grown up taking care of those same injuries. They were their mothers' daughters, and it seemed they always would be.

"Thank you," Olivia said, clasping the hand Amanda pressed against the washcloth. She cast a grateful look upward, into her fiancée's pretty, contrite face, and found only solace there. No trace of anger or mistrust. Just those blue eyes in which she sometimes thought she glimpsed eternity. "How's your stomach?"

"Eh, I'll live." Amanda was still studying Olivia up close, as if she expected to find another hurt, besides the one she was tending to. "Are you okay? That was a helluv—" Pausing, Amanda glanced down at Matilda, who listened to every word of their conversation, thumb planted securely in her mouth. "That was one heck of a wallop. Is your head okay?"

"I'll live," Olivia echoed, but received a skeptical look. She had promised to be more forthcoming about her feelings, especially if something bothered her or didn't feel right, and she'd put them both through the fire more than once by refusing to acknowledge pain. Opening herself up emotionally was still like getting blood from a stone sometimes, but she was trying. "It hurts a little. Mostly my face, though—not my head. The cold is helping."

She decided not to mention the anxiety attack. That could wait for another day. Sometime after Christmas, when the kids weren't in earshot. As if to prove Olivia's point, Jesse stopped in the middle of an intense imaginary bout, and asked, "What's a wallop? Is that like a wallaby? Did a wallaby hurt you, Mommy?"

"Jesse," Amanda groaned, signaling for the child to return to battle. "This is grownup talk. Go . . . fight Frannie or somethin'."

Olivia placed a calming hand on Amanda's knee and tipped her head imploringly. Their middle child's incessant questions could be taxing, but Olivia enjoyed the little girl's curiosity and unique perspective. Plus, when she looked at Jesse, she couldn't help seeing Amanda at that age. She loved all her children equally, and anyone who said differently would live to regret it, but there would always be a special place in her heart for the scrappy little blonde. Both of them.

"No, baby, it wasn't a wallaby," she said, smiling on the side of her face not covered by the washcloth. "Mommy just . . . just had an accident, that's all. I'm okay."

When Amanda's hand came down on top of hers, Olivia glanced up, expecting to find another smile, or at least some of the amusement her detective usually expressed when one of the kids said something cute or funny. It was often Amanda's sense of humor that reminded Olivia to laugh at all. But rather than the blonde's signature dimple, she discovered a pale cheek, a clenched jaw, and a stoniness she wasn't used to seeing outside of work or during the most difficult of court cases. Once again, Amanda squeezed her hand so hard it hurt, but Olivia didn't complain or even react. She could take it.

Noticing the tight grip, Amanda suddenly released it and rubbed the back of Olivia's hand, knuckles to wrist. She toyed with the watch there, twisting it side to side and tapping a fingernail on the crystal that must have set her back a few hundred dollars, at least. And all because her mother hated Olivia so.

For a moment, Olivia wondered if Amanda had any idea that Beth Anne was responsible for the shattered watch, but she quickly nixed the thought—why whisper the confession in her ear, if Amanda already knew? And what did it matter now, anyway? That awful woman was gone, the storm had passed. Perhaps they could salvage the day after all. Enjoy a little sun.

"I love it," Olivia reiterated, as Amanda continued fidgeting with the watch strap, tracing a thumb back and forth over the fine leather, dark as blackberries. This time, a faint smile settled on the blonde's lips. It widened even further when Olivia added, "And you."

"Me too." Amanda squeezed Olivia's wrist just below the Breitling, but the pressure was light and affectionate, tempered as carefully as glass. She reached into the pocket of her robe and withdrew Olivia's cell phone, purposefully putting it aside on the end table next to the sofa. She turned her back to it, glanced sidelong at the kids to confirm they were preoccupied—Matilda drowsed at Olivia's breast, patting it in time with the heartbeat below—then silently mouthed, "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Olivia mouthed back.

They were savoring the moment, exchanging sweet, tentative smiles and caresses, when the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen. The long-forgotten casserole was burning.

"Oh, shit," Amanda said, switching the washcloth from her own hand to Olivia's, and springing up from the armrest. She groaned and held her side, waddling toward the kitchen in her overlong robe, kicking the flaps out as she went.

Startled by the noise, Matilda sat bolt upright in Olivia's lap and, with the absolute clarity of everyday usage, proclaimed, "Oh, shit."

"I'm sorry!" called out a retreating voice, thick on the Southern drawl. The bleating alarm and Frannie's mournful howls censored most of the profanity-laced rant that followed, as Amanda banged things around in the oven and flapped something else overhead.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Olivia tried to suppress the chorus of "oh shits" that all three children were sounding in turn, each delighted by her inability to shush them without laughing until she snorted.

By the time it ended, it was both the worst and best Christmas Olivia had ever celebrated.

**. . .**


	22. Chapter 21: East of Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so eager to post the next couple chapters, I almost forgot this one kicks off part three of the story. New cover art, yay. There's a lot going on in this section, and some of y'all probably aren't going to be too happy about it. But before we have Amanda drawn and quartered, please try to remember she's been through a lot of trauma recently (and in past stories and her canon history), too. Hers manifests very differently from Olivia's; Olivia projects hers inward, Amanda's explodes outward. I've had a lot of requests to write about Amanda's trauma, and this was the result. Sorry if it doesn't line up with your view of how it would be, but I write 'em like I see 'em. That said, there is a lot of questionable behavior in this and the next chapter especially, so I'm issuing a light **TW** for possible dubcon and referenced domestic violence **/TW** just to be safe. To those who've been requesting sex, well... be careful what you wish for. }:)

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[ ](https://imgur.com/reuVWEB)

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# PART III: The Root of All Evil

**. . .**

**CHAPTER 21:** East of Eden

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The belt slithered from its loops with a faint hiss when Amanda pulled it free of her waist in one swift motion. She held it by the buckle for a moment, allowing it to dangle, snakelike, in her hand. A few kookier members of the Rollins clan were snake handlers, or so she'd heard tell over the years. Purportedly, they lived way out in the sticks, someplace that made Loganville look like a major metropolis. Evangelicals, of course. She had never met them and likely never would, even if she did make it back to old Hock-A-Loogieville someday. And why she would want to do that was anybody's guess.

She tossed the belt onto the overstuffed armchair that served no purpose in the room, at least not that she could tell, other than a fancy laundry basket. But Olivia liked it there—made the room homier, she'd said—and Amanda hadn't seen a reason to complain at the time. So what if it took up space, no one ever sat in it, and she stubbed her toe on the wooden legs every time she walked by it in the dark? Big damn whoop.

Sighing heavily, she nudged her shoes off under the chair. She had taken a page from Kat Tamin's handbook and worn a pair of two-toned Oxfords (Amanda had always called them saddle shoes, but these were caramel and cream, rather than traditional black and white), which she combined with buff-colored trousers that cuffed above the ankle. Olivia had commented about wearing cropped pants and no socks in winter, but that had only made Amanda more determined to do it. She damn near got frostbite on her exposed ankles walking to and from the auditorium, and her feet were like two blocks of ice, each toe an individual cube, during the entire play. But she'd made her bed and intended to lie in it, no matter how cold and lonely it might be.

At the thought, she gazed askance at their actual bed, neatly made by Olivia that morning, and sighed again. They had used it for nothing other than sleeping for almost four weeks. Granted, most of that was because of Amanda's brush with death and the subsequent hole in her stomach, but that was healed now—more or less. Honestly, she had expected some make-up sex after the shitstorm on Christmas Day. She'd even tried to initiate it, a hand halfway up Olivia's shirt when the captain had placed her hand on top and requested that they just hold one another. "You're still on the mend, sweetheart. Come here, be my little spoon."

To which, Amanda had obliged . . . and then kept on obliging every night since. Except they weren't cuddling anymore, either. Oh, at first there were hugs and kisses and I love you's, murmured when the lights went out. But they woke up with their backs to each other in the mornings now, and Olivia dressed for work in silence, claiming she didn't want to disturb Amanda's rest. She'd been claiming a lot of things lately: headaches, feeling "just tired" or "not hungry"—Amanda was keeping her eye on that one, and they had squabbled over a plateful of uneaten pizza rolls, of all things, the previous evening—and only wanting "one more" glass of wine before bed.

Speaking of wine, Olivia was already on her second glass that evening, the first poured before the kids were even in bed. She hardly ever drank in front of them, so it had come as a shock to see her uncorking a bottle of red moments after they got home from Noah's dance recital. The glass had barely left her hand since, accompanying her into the girls' room for goodnight kisses ("That stuff is stinky, Mommy," Jesse could be heard commenting as Amanda returned from taking the dogs out to potty. "Does it taste bad?") and into Noah's bedroom, once he was finally persuaded to change out of his leotard and into pajamas.

That boy loved his dance classes, and though Amanda didn't know a plié from a pirouette, she thought he was pretty damn good. She'd made sure to tell him so—paraphrasing, of course—several times over on the drive home. He might be calling her "Ma" with complete confidence these days, but she owed him big, after her behavior at Christmas; he had called her _mean_ that day, and it was true.

She'd never yelled at the kids before that, not even her biological wild child, Jesse. The looks on their faces when she snapped her fingers at them had taken her right back to childhood, she and Kim staring up at their daddy—up at _Mean_ Dean Rollins—with huge, frightened eyes when he made that same gesture and told them to get their asses upstairs if they didn't want the belt. Meanwhile, their mother sobbed and bled on the living room floor or the kitchen floor or the bathroom floor or . . .

Shit, she would sure as hell like to down two glasses of wine herself, if not for the pain medication she was still taking—only as needed, but she had definitely needed something to get her through the week so far. And if they were really being fair about it, Olivia shouldn't be mixing alcohol and her anxiety meds, either. But who ever said life was fair?

Amanda glanced over to the full-length mirror where Olivia stood, in a partial and very tame state of undress. Her wedge boots teetered together sideways next to the dresser, like a couple of drunks trying to prop each other up outside a bar; weird, she never put her shoes there. The suede plum-colored blazer she'd worn to work that morning was hanging from one of the dresser knobs too—another anomaly. She always took it straight to the closet on a hanger. Her hair was about to spill from the butterfly clip into which she'd loosely gathered it at some point throughout her busy day, and her gauzy cowl-neck blouse was untucked from her dark trousers. Not once did she look at her reflection in the glass she was facing.

But she did reach for the wine glass atop the dresser, right next to the watch she'd slipped from her wrist and laid out flat a moment ago. That was a new development too, taking off the watch. She used to wear it at almost all times, except in the shower or during messy activities with the kids. In this life, nothing was certain but death, taxes, and Olivia Benson's Breitling. Or so Amanda had believed when she bled herself dry to have it repaired.

She breathed her third and heaviest sigh yet, in unison with the hearty mouthful Olivia drained from her glass. The captain half turned to look, cheeks bulging with Merlot, while Amanda unzipped her stupid short-legged pants and shimmied out of them as vigorously as she dared. Her abdomen wrenched in protest, but she refused to flinch right then. Not while she stood there, pants around her cold ankles, the wrinkled flaps of her white button-down all that shielded from Olivia's sidelong gaze the plain white cotton panties Amanda had chosen earlier, because she probably wouldn't be getting any again tonight.

"What?" Olivia asked, in a tone just shy of snippy. Her lips were stained a deep berry red from the wine and the remnants of her lipstick. The only other makeup she wore was a touch of eyeliner and some mascara that lent her eyes a heavy, sultry look. Or maybe that was the wine as well.

It was annoying how attractive she was without even trying. And especially annoying how attracted to her Amanda was, even while royally pissed. "Nothin'," Amanda muttered, shaking the pants off her feet and punting the heap aside. She struggled out of her fitted tweed jacket, tossing that on top of the belt on the armchair. She was sick of looking at the thing, which she'd only worn because Olivia commented that a belt might not be a wise choice, given her injury.

The captain had been right, of course. The captain was always right.

The captain also raked her gaze up Amanda's bare legs before turning back to the mirror, humming a thick, sarcastic little, "Mm'kay." She put the wine glass down heavily on the dresser top and freed her hair from the clip, giving the locks an extravagant toss and fluffing them about her shoulders. She did that often in bed, that hair sweep—usually while straddling Amanda, sometimes while riding her thigh or the strap-on, knowing full well the tantalizing visual it provided. It was one of the few ways Olivia actually showed off.

It couldn't be a coincidence, not after the once-over she'd just given Amanda. Perhaps Olivia didn't have quite the overactive sex drive that Amanda boasted, but they were in no danger of lesbian bed death any time soon. In fact, prior to the shooting, the sex was just about the best it had ever been. There were a couple of missteps here and there—some roleplays gone wrong, some triggers pulled—but those were to be expected in any sexual relationship when you were still working out the kinks (ha ha). She knew for a fact that Olivia got as horny as she did sometimes, and this dry spell had to be killing her, too. Maybe that was why she'd been so bitchy lately. As if Amanda had any room to talk. If she didn't get fucked soon, she was going to rip every single godforsaken blonde hair out of her own damn head.

Tonight had to be the night. Even when they were on the outs with each other, Amanda had a serious jones for an Olivia fix. She had a serious jones for a lot of things at the moment, none of them healthy, but Olivia was the safest place to satisfy those cravings. The captain was her biggest gamble yet, and somehow Amanda kept beating the house. With any luck, her winning streak was about to continue.

She only wished she'd worn sexier underwear. But she could work with these. They weren't dingy or full of holes, just plain. They did go well with the Oxford shirt, of which she flipped open an extra button or two. If she'd learned anything from her captain about the art of seduction, it was that the simple things were often the sexiest—a soft sigh of pleasure, a lock of hair positioned just so. A pair of plump, wine-stained lips; a glimpse of deep, dark cleavage in the hollows of a loose-fitting neckline, as a reflection momentarily dipped down in front of the mirror to brush something off her foot. Had there been anything there at all? Amanda didn't think so.

She sauntered up behind Olivia, not exactly sneaking, but also not making her presence known until her arms closed around the captain's waist. It felt smaller than Amanda remembered, although that might have been an illusion from going weeks without doing this, without pulling her fiancée in and making her intentions known. Olivia started, but just barely. More like she had heard a loud crack in the distance than a nearby gunshot; more like a swat on the hand than a slap across the face. It was subtle enough for Amanda to ignore without feeling very guilty. She was tired of apologizing every time Olivia twitched.

"Hey, baby," she murmured, exhaling in Olivia's ear, chin resting on her shoulder. She had to stretch a little bit to do it, although not much, with the captain in her pretty bare feet. Her toenails were painted a silvery color, probably in honor of New Year's. They glinted in the lamplight from the dresser, reminding Amanda of scattered coins. "Mm, you smell good."

She did. She smelled like shampoo from her morning shower, talc from the baby-scented doll Jesse made them kiss at bedtime, her trusty Merlot, and the faintest hint of sweat, from a day spent busting perps and being packed in shoulder to shoulder inside a stuffy auditorium. It was a sweet-dirty smell that turned Amanda on all the more. She could dirty up her sweet little captain in no time.

"I smell like a beat cop," Olivia said, patting the back of Amanda's clasped hands briskly, signaling for release. She gave all the pretense of being busy, but with none of the action. After ten minutes in front of the mirror, her belt still wasn't undone.

"Well, you sure don't look like one." Amanda let go of her wrist, leaving an arm hooked around Olivia's middle, and slipped the opposite hand just inside the woman's low-cut blouse, resting on the generous swell of her breast. "And you definitely don't feel like one. Betcha don't taste like one, either. Lemme see . . . " She nuzzled away a lock of dark brown hair and licked the side of Olivia's neck with a long, sensual stroke.

"Mmm, nope." Amanda smacked her lips together appreciatively. "Never tasted me no beat cop that good before."

"Tasted a lot of them, have you?" Olivia quirked her eyebrow at Amanda's reflection in the mirror, reacting to the lick with little more than a passing glance. Absentmindedly, she wiped the saliva from her neck with the backs of her fingers, as if it were a regular occurrence—cleaning Amanda off of her.

The question, undoubtedly rhetorical and probably not meant at all the way Amanda first took it, stung like a sonuvabitch. She had heard just about every iteration there was of being called a slut since high school, and she ought to be immune to it by now—mostly she was—but hearing it even remotely implied by Olivia cut deep. Far deeper than the needle that had etched that name into her skin, reminding her of who she was: (Mean) Amanda Rollins.

Scoffing, she removed her hand from inside Olivia's blouse and reached for the glass of wine. Screw it. "Yeah, guess I have," she said, and downed the remaining liquid in one go. She practically snapped the slender stem when she set the glass down like a beer bottle, rather than delicate crystal. Olivia hadn't uttered a word or sound of protest, but her eyes followed every movement in the mirror, and she was clearly pissed about the wine. Even more so when Amanda added, "Kinda like you and your reds, huh?"

"Excuse me?" The captain tried to turn, but Amanda held fast to her waist, feet planted apart and refusing to budge. To face the other way, she would have to use force and that was something she never did with Amanda (except maybe a few times in the Catskills, to save her life), let alone after a recent injury. She shot a dirty look into the mirror, but remained facing it. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Her tone indicated she knew exactly what it was supposed to mean, and normally it might have cooled Amanda down. Tonight it only made her hotter. She always tried hard not to anger Olivia, but truth be told, the captain was sexy as hell when she was mad. When she stopped worrying about what was right and good, and refused to take anyone's shit, including Amanda's. It happened at work occasionally, that last part—although not as much as it used to—seldom at home, and almost never in the bedroom. And damned if Amanda didn't want to find out what would happen if it did.

Besides, she couldn't be good all the time like Olivia was. She had proven that weeks earlier when she scratched off that lottery ticket. She was the same old  
( _don't forget mean_ )  
Amanda she'd always been: weak, impulsive, ready to throw away everything she had worked so hard for on a few measly bucks. To top it all off, she was a liar, something Olivia loathed. On Christmas Day, Amanda had come so close to telling her fiancée about the gambling slip. The confession had been on the tip of her tongue, right up until Jesse interrupted. And then: the sweetest relief. It was almost as good as an orgasm, the feeling of not getting caught.

Almost, but not quite. She was going to get the real thing first, and maybe afterwards she would have the balls—no longer blue—to admit her transgression. (But was it really that bad? She was addicted to the hard stuff: cards, chips, dice, stacks of lovely bills. Things you held onto, until eventually they became an extension of yourself. To Amanda, playing a scratch-off ticket was like a recovered heroin addict taking a hit off someone's joint. Not worth mentioning. Not worth the trouble it would stir up.)

There was plenty of trouble she would rather stir up elsewhere, and her hand was in the process of doing just that as she slipped it back inside Olivia's blouse. "It means I think you've had enough, Captain," she said matter-of-factly, but not without a hint of the sass she knew Olivia secretly enjoyed. "That stuff gives you headaches and bad dreams. At the very least, it makes you sleepy. And I need you wide awake and lucid for what I'm gonna do to you."

"Oh?" Olivia inclined her head at the mirror as if she were looking over the top of her glasses, though she wasn't wearing any. And much like the text she needed the missing frames for, her response was difficult to read. She appeared neither pleased or displeased. If anything, she seemed surprised that Amanda was in the mood. It never used to surprise her. "Is that right?"

"Mm-hmm." Amanda bypassed a bra cup, reaching in to stroke one soft, formless nipple. After some coaxing—a little more than usual—it finally began to stiffen beneath her fingertips, along with the rest of Olivia's body.

The change had been almost imperceptible, and it was even easier to overlook than that first cringe. The captain generally carried a lot of tension in her statuesque frame; she just needed some good lovin' to help her relax. A few minutes under an attentive pair of hands, and she'd be as soft and malleable as warm butter. Cradling Olivia's breast in her palm, Amanda rubbed her thumb back and forth across the nipple, then gave the surrounding flesh a gentle but noticeable squeeze.

"I miss you," she murmured, trailing kisses along the delicate skin she'd licked a moment before. The neck was an especially sensitive spot for Olivia—then again, most of her body responded to touch the way a flower opened to the sun on its petals—but Amanda didn't like to think about why, at least not while attempting to seduce the captain. (How deprived of touch did one have to be to react so eagerly when it was given? How much of that sensitivity came from the abuses acted out on this beautiful, velvety flesh?) "Want you."

A small, indistinct sound came from Olivia's lips when Amanda slid her hand to the other bra cup and squeezed again, the cushioned shell tempering her insistence only a little. She continued kneading, her eye on Olivia's reflection, watching for signs of . . . desire? Frustration? Refusal? Anything but the apathy she found there.

When Olivia tilted her head back, eyes rolling up to expose the whites a second before the lids closed over them, Amanda was certain she had her. God, her mouth was sexy. Sometimes just picturing it made Amanda wet. But then: "It's been a really long day, love. I'm tired. And you're still recovering. No strenuous activity, remember?"

A long day, she said. A long day was sitting at home in your pajamas, hair and teeth unbrushed, watching hour forty of Nickelodeon shows because the kids didn't go back to school until after the new year; a long day was waiting for your soon-to-be wife to return home from getting to do _her_ job, like you were goddamn June Cleaver living vicariously through your spouse's tales of the office; a long day was sitting through an hour-long dance recital with that same spouse's thigh rubbing against yours, and hoping maybe, just maybe, she would finally open her legs for you when you got home afterwards. Amanda knew about long goddamn days.

"Doesn't have to be strenuous," she said, bringing up her other hand to massage both of Olivia's breasts in unison. The cowl of the captain's blouse hung low, pulled down by the motion, and it showcased her tits nicely in the mirror. She'd worn one of her more revealing bras to work, and that seemed significant. Why bother wearing something so hot if you didn't plan to use it later? "You could take care of me. I can be your poor, helpless patient, you can be my naughty nurse . . . "

Olivia didn't appear to have heard the roleplay suggestion. Her gaze had turned inward, instead of focusing on the mirror, and her brow was furrowed as if she concentrated deeply. Amanda probably should have phrased it differently—the things they saw at work on a regular basis (or at least Olivia did, while Amanda sat on the couch and finished off another pint of ice cream) took some of the fun out of sexualizing certain scenarios, such as a helpless patient being "serviced" by their caregiver. But if they ever wanted to enjoy sex, they had to be able to leave those cases at work, not drag them into their bed. Amanda could do it; she'd done it all the time, prior to her (completely involuntary) extended leave.

"Or naughty doctor, if you prefer. I know how you like to be in—" Amanda swallowed the conclusion abruptly when Olivia took her by the wrists and forced her hands down. Not rough, but not as excessively gentle as Olivia had been with her these past few weeks, either. The captain meant business, and it stirred in Amanda a complex set of feelings, chief among them: lust. And second, a flaring sensation in her chest and a little behind the eyes, which she instantly recognized as her rebellious streak coming to life full-force. It was easily recognizable after spending the majority of December with Beth Anne.

That had been its own special kind of hell, designed solely for Amanda's benefit. She had felt herself regressing, backhanded comment by backhanded comment, into her old teenage habits of mouthing off to her mother, mocking Beth Anne behind her back, or flat-out ignoring her altogether, and was powerless to stop it. Every morning for two weeks she'd stolen away to the rooftop and smoked a cigarette, shivering and cursing and coughing until she almost blacked out from the agony in her gut—she threw up the first time—then tiptoed back into the apartment and bathed like a cockroach trying desperately to cleanse itself of human touch. She could have sworn Beth Anne smirked knowingly at her every time she performed the ritual, and once had even called out that there was some toilet water in her toiletry bag if Amanda needed it. ("Toilet water in my toiletry bag," Amanda mimicked to the medicine cabinet mirror, her voice pitched roughly the same as a cartoon mouse. "Not usin' anything of yours with the word 'toilet' in it, you—")

But she had always smelled fresh as a daisy, or at least a bar of soap and a capful of mouthwash, by the time Olivia got home after work. The captain, as far as Amanda could tell, suspected nothing of her rooftop rendezvous, and by some miracle from high above the clandestine retreat, Beth Anne hadn't let the secret slip. There were still five cigarettes left in the pack. Amanda had been sorely tempted to call Lucy or Sienna to sit the kids for half an hour or so, in the days since her mother's departure, but both nannies were spending the holidays with their own families and she wouldn't disturb them for a quick nicotine fix. Oh, but Lord, how she'd wanted to.

It had come as no surprise to Amanda when Beth Anne's visit culminated in disaster on Christmas Day; or, as Beth Anne called it, in a saccharine yet pious tone that made Amanda's skin crawl, "Jesus' birthday." The woman loved a dramatic exit almost as much as she loved causing a scene or sowing mistrust, spite, discontent. And what better time to do so than on the birthday of our Lord and Savior, Jesus H. Christ? Amanda hadn't seen that slap coming, though. She knew her mother was an unbalanced and intolerable bitch, but physically assaulting Olivia was a whole new level of crazy. Beth Anne had sometimes lashed out at her husband during fights—usually in defense, occasionally to provoke—and she'd scolded Amanda and Kim with a sound pat on the lips, the other hand cupped to the back of whichever blonde head was dodging away, whenever they sassed or swore at her.

But the slap she'd hurled at Olivia had been hard enough to redden the captain's cheek for the rest of the day, putting Amanda completely off the Christmas feast her mother had left to languish in the oven, including the dried-out, slightly charred casserole. It might have been her imagination, but she could have sworn she was able to distinguish individual finger marks in the faint bruise Olivia had the next day. She felt sick about it even now, all evidence of the blow long since faded. She'd been the one to tell Beth Anne that Olivia's mother used to hit her. Had that, in Beth Anne's warped mind, been an invitation for more abuse?

Better yet, why wouldn't Olivia talk to her about it? By the next day, the captain was barely acknowledging the slap had occurred at all, and she shushed each of Amanda's attempts to apologize. It wasn't her fault, Olivia said—and besides, she was perfectly fine and Amanda needn't feel guilty or responsible. Her calmness and refusal to admit anything wrong had happened only succeeded in agitating Amanda more. As far as she was concerned, Olivia should be pissed at Beth Anne, not excusing her behavior. Excuses were what Beth Anne had always made for her husband, for why she couldn't leave him. Amanda hated excuses.

"Don't be like that, darlin'," she said cajolingly, but kept her hands at Olivia's midsection for the time being, rubbing in slow, enticing circles. She was really pushing her luck right now, and under normal circumstances she would have backed off, moped away with her tail tucked in like Frannie being denied a slice of bacon.

These weren't normal circumstances. She had that itch. The one she got when the dice were so hot they practically burned her fingers, or when the deck seemed stacked in her favor and she just wanted one more round . . . . The look on Olivia's face told her it was risky, but that only made it more exciting. She could win this hand. All she needed was her queen and she'd have a royal flush.

"Don't you miss me? Touchin' me?" She delved under the loose hem of Olivia's blouse to stroke her soft, unblemished belly, her tender and ticklish sides. Though they weren't at ease, neither were they as tense as they had been just moments earlier. "Lovin' me?"

Olivia licked her lips before she could begin. She often did that when she was turned on. (She also did it when she was angry, anxious, or choosing her words carefully, but Amanda preferred to think it had a sexier connotation right then. It definitely looked sexy.) "Yes, but—"

"Uh-uh, no buts," Amanda said lightly, slipping a hand out to catch one of Olivia's, draw it behind them, and place it firmly against her backside. "Asses I'll allow.

"Oh, you'll allow, huh?" Olivia's tone had a vague edge to it, but hints of a smile played about her lips and she dug her fingers into Amanda's ass cheek like it was a large, succulent apple to be brought to her mouth for biting. Her fingernails had grown out since the last trim, and Amanda hissed with pleasure at the sharp little needles in her flesh. Olivia was tattooed on her skin just as surely as her own name.

"Mm-hmm." Amanda returned her hand to Olivia's bare belly, gliding gradually upward to palm her breasts, testing the response with a subtle squeeze. "And tits. I'll allow those, too."

The smile slipped from Olivia's lips by a fraction of an inch—the same measure that had stood between Amanda and certain death when the bullet ripped through her core—but it hadn't been that pronounced to begin with. Absent any readable expression, the captain closed her eyes and exhaled heavily through her nose. It wasn't a no. Her hand still cupped Amanda's ass.

Amanda hesitated only a moment before moving to the belt buckle below. Foreplay had never really been her thing, until she started sleeping with her captain and realized how much fun it could be. Tonight, she didn't have the patience; she wasn't in the mood for fun or talk or fooling around. She wasn't in the mood for slow and gentle.

When she started loosening the buckle, she felt Olivia's gaze fixed on her and looked up to see two deep brown eyes reflected steadily back in the mirror. Well, usually they were deep. Right then, there was something flat and unknowable about them. A wall had gone up, and Amanda was too preoccupied constructing her own walls to notice—or to care. The safeword was still in place. If Olivia wanted to stop, she knew how to use it. (But would she?)

( _Would she?_ )

The buckle separated from the strap, clinking as it came apart in Amanda's greedy hands. She almost froze then, overwhelmed by a flood of images to which that sound was attached—her daddy, handsome as the dickens, favored big, heavy buckles that made a lot of noise just like he did; his most prized piece was a sterling silver clasp with a relief of the Jack Daniel's logo that once left a perfect imprint of the "Old No. 7 Brand" in Beth Anne's back for a month—but the very next moment, they were gone. Or at least buried safely beneath the shifting sands of memory, far from her grasp. There were real, tangible things to hold onto in the present, and so far they hadn't slipped away from her: the zipper to Olivia's pants, which slackened at the hips when she pulled it down; the hips themselves, full and unapologetically feminine, so unlike her narrow, boyish set; the warmth that waited beneath a practical pair of bikini briefs she recognized by touch alone.

"Aman—" Olivia cut the rest short with a soft gasp when Amanda tugged aside the cotton crotch of her underwear and scrubbed two fingers roughly across her clit. With the hand not clutching Amanda's ass, she reached forward and grabbed the mirror, her engagement ring clacking on the tall glass frame. It was screwed in securely to the wall, otherwise she might have brought it down on top both of them.

"Jesus," she said a bit raggedly, her breathing shallow and shaky. Her knuckles were already a lurid shade of white from gripping the mirror. Sometimes the bodies they pulled out of the river were that color. "Fuck."

"If this is too much for you, I can stop," Amanda said, her tone flat and dispassionate. Its one feature was an implied taunt: _Can you take it, Captain? Are you strong enough?_ She didn't even see herself in the mirror anymore—just Olivia, long hair draping off her shoulders, parted straight down the center so that only her face was visible when the strands fell forward, and most prominently of all the features reflected were her dark eyes, still locked on Amanda, still someplace far away. Her ability to be entirely out of reach, even with Amanda's arms around her, fingers rotating her clit, was maddening. It must be nice to tune out like that when real life got to be too much.

Appearing to overhear the thought, Olivia brought her gaze into focus and clenched her jaw as if she were about to have a limb amputated without anesthesia. Through her perfect, pretty teeth—Serena sure hadn't scrimped on her daughter's orthodontia—she gritted out, "No. Don't stop."

Before Olivia's lips fully formed the last word, Amanda pushed inside of her with the same pair of fingers as before. She had known she wouldn't be refused. (But she'd hoped. Lord, had she hoped.) For all that talk of waiting, Olivia was good and wet, and a small, girlish whine escaped her on that first thrust. She bent forward slightly, still holding onto the mirror, but caught a glimpse of herself in it and quickly righted her posture. Her nipples had pricked up beneath the airy fabric of her blouse, too prominent to go unnoticed, especially when she rolled her head back, chest expanding, hair spilling out behind her.

The soft brown locks tickled Amanda's cheek, luring her onward with their gossamer touch, and for a moment she was lost in the sweet, familiar sensations of her captain, her Liv, so warm against her and liquid honey in her hands. For a moment, it didn't feel wrong, like she was making the biggest mistake of her life—and charging at full speed, head down, feet slapping the pavement, to get there. Then she looked up.

Olivia had covered her reflection with the hand that was on the mirror, head resting against her outstretched arm, face obscured by the odd angle. She was biting into her other hand, the one that had grasped Amanda's backside just seconds before, near the fleshy spot beneath her thumb. Hard enough to break the skin, from the looks of it. And a closer glimpse over her shoulder confirmed Amanda's suspicion: there were tears streaming down the captain's cheek. Her body wasn't shuddering with pleasure, but with silent, suppressed sobs.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Amanda growled, jerking her hand back from Olivia and wiping it across the front of her white shirt. The scent on her fingers, like a fine and exotic spice, usually made her mouth water. Now it felt incriminating, as if she'd been caught with a blood-dripping knife in her hand. She fell back a step and began pacing to and fro behind Olivia, who had flinched as if she'd been  
( _shot_ )  
slapped all over again when Amanda pulled away. She shook her head bitterly, hands planted on her hips. "What the hell, Olivia? You're crying during sex now? Is that supposed to turn me on?"

Chest heaving like she'd just run up all five flights of stairs to their apartment, Olivia took her hand off the mirror and checked her reflection with a quick, tentative glance before turning her back to it. She seemed genuinely surprised by the moisture on her cheeks, and she swiped it away quickly with the heel of the palm she'd been biting. The flesh there was pink and inflamed, teeth marks clearly visible when she lifted both hands in a pissy little shrug. "It doesn't mean anything. It's just a release. I told you not to stop, I'm fine."

Amanda gave a shout of harsh, humorless laughter, cutting it off almost as soon as it began. She always got loud when she was mean, and vice versa. Daddy's girl, through and through—like a bullet to the gut that left you scarred for life. "That why you were biting yourself? Because you're so damn 'fine'?"

"What the hell else was I supposed to bite when you had me pinned to the fucking—" Olivia flung a gesture at the mirror, but let the rest fall flat, along with her hands, dropping them spiritlessly against her thighs. "Fuck this," she muttered, and tried to shoulder past Amanda. "I'm going to bed."

What Amanda wanted to say was that ( _I'm sorry_ ) Olivia didn't get to just walk away in the middle of an argument. What she wanted to say was that ( _I love you_ ) Olivia should lay off the sauce, maybe then she wouldn't be ready for bed before nine o'clock at night. What she actually said was ( _I think I need help_ ), "Pinned? You kiddin' me? That wasn't pinning you."

She caught Olivia by the arm in mid retreat and walked her backwards several steps, until her back met abruptly with the tall dresser. Not hard enough for her head to hit the ledge behind it, but hard enough that the wine glass toppled off the wooden stand and landed sideways on the carpet, trickling bloodlike drops onto the dense pile. Amanda braced her arm across Olivia's chest, leaning into it with her full weight, trying not to think about  
( _Old No. 7 Brand_ )  
the drawer knobs digging into the captain's spine.

"This is pinning you," she said hotly, face inches from the other woman's. Their bare feet and the give in the carpet almost put them at a level height. She could feel Olivia's breath against her lips, smell the Merlot on it, tart and sweet. If not for that wine and the element of surprise, she never would have been able to capture Olivia so easily.

They were playfully competitive about who had more physical strength, and though Amanda had stamina and litheness on her side, she couldn't quite generate the same force as her captain. Olivia drew her strength from somewhere deep inside that Amanda had never tapped into. (Had their roles been reversed on that cliffside in the Catskills, she truly didn't know if she could have saved her fiancée.) The pain and weakness in her abdomen, the muscle atrophy from a month of no exercise, made it even more unlikely she could hold Olivia in place for very long.

But the captain didn't struggle. In fact, she didn't look particularly surprised at all to find herself pressed up against the dresser, her detective—the woman she was going to marry and raise her children with—restraining her like she was a perp. Why didn't she struggle? Why didn't she tell Amanda to get the hell off of her?

"See the difference?" Amanda goaded, pushing into Olivia's shoulders with her elbow and fist, trying to incite something besides passivity. Even the crying was preferable to a complete lack of emotion; at least then she might have been able to tell what was going on in her captain's head.

If Olivia would just yell at her, push her away, anything—at least then she might be able to justify her behavior. She would have a reason to see this thing that was happening through to the end. She'd felt it many times before, the rage that spurred her on, making her say things she didn't mean, take things further than she meant to go. It had manifested in many different forms over the years, but with much the same result each time:

As a kid they had called her reckless because of her tendency to dive headfirst into any situation, no matter the danger. While all her friends were on the ground, daring each other to climb the Loganville water tower, Mandy Rollins was already halfway up the ladder. She was also the one who ended up with her arm in a cast and the doctor telling her she was lucky to be alive after such a fall. (Jesse had some of that in her, and it worried Amanda more than she let on.)

When the boys in high school wanted an easy lay, they knew whose number to ink into their palm from the back of the bathroom stall door. By then, she held the title as school slut and figured if they were going to call her that anyway, she might as well oblige. She hadn't slept with every guy who claimed she did, but enough that people took their word for it over hers.

In adulthood it was the gambling. It had started out small, just taking her college friends to the cleaners at poker or betting on a few championship games here and there. But like everything else, she took it too far and ended up dodging loan sharks, owing thousands of dollars in debt, putting her life and career on the line.

It was the same feeling that had lead her to sleep with Nick Amaro and then drunkenly provoke him  
( _just like Mama_ )  
to see what he would do, to prove he wasn't the Boy Scout he pretended to be; the same feeling that had drawn her into an underground casino, where sheer dumb luck kept her from being blackmailed into sex, evidence tampering, and facilitating rape; and it was the same damn feeling that had seen her raging in a courthouse waiting room, ready to send a psychologically abused woman to prison because of her own mommy issues.

Different ways of presenting itself, but always the same result, this anger of hers: she broke things. No matter how much she cared about someone, she found a way to hurt them.

"I've been pinned down before," Olivia said in an even tone, voice catching only at the last moment. She gave her hair a sharp flick away from her face, as if that would distract from the chink in her armor. Her lips were parted almost imperceptibly, her chest hitching so slightly Amanda wouldn't have noticed, were they not so close together. She was frightened, after all. "I know the diff—"

Amanda shut her up with a bruising kiss on the mouth, if a kiss it could be called. It felt more like a punishment, her lips and tongue plying at Olivia's, allowing little opportunity to reciprocate. It was the way most men kissed, without regard to their partner's satisfaction or gag reflex. The guys in high school had kissed that way; her father had kissed her mother that way, typically after slapping the hell out of her (or sometimes in the midst of it, sometimes while pinning her down . . . ). Until Amanda had slept with a woman for the first time—not the high school and college trysts, but the handful of times she'd fallen into bed with Sadie, her fellow rookie in Atlanta—she had thought it was the only way to kiss someone. Urgent and hard and mean.

Above all, mean.

**. . .**


	23. Chapter 22: Timshel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm too eager to post this to wait till evening. If anyone was expecting happier times from this chapter, I am truly sorry for how mistaken you were, lol. Remember when I said this was probably the angstiest story I've ever written? I wadn't playin'. Once again, **TW** for potential dubcon and domestic violence. **/TW** Also, a couple people asked who the brunette next to Alex is in the part III cover art. Sorry, guys, I got overexcited to post it and forgot not everyone has seen my ramblings about the Devilishverse on Twitter. It's Daphne. I used the actress Caroline Dhavernas ( _Wonderfalls_ , _Hannibal_ , _Mary Kills People_ , etc.) as inspiration for the character, so that's a pic of her on the cover. But feel free to picture her however you choose. :) Um, happy hump day?

* * *

"But the Hebrew word, the word _timshel_ —'Thou mayest'—that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if 'Thou mayest'—it is also true that 'Thou mayest not.'"

\- John Steinbeck, _East of Eden_

* * *

## CHAPTER 22: Timshel

**. . .**

When Olivia tried to return the kiss, warring with the tongue that probed her mouth and grasping at Amanda's backside beneath the Oxford shirt, Amanda broke the connection, leaving them both open-mouthed and panting, a string of saliva trembling in the space between. She knew she was on the right track when Olivia huffed in frustration and knotted a hand in her hair, drawing her in for another kiss. Resisting the pull, she buried her face against the captain's neck instead, nipping and sucking warmly at the tender skin from shoulder to jaw. She detected a pulse beneath her lips and focused there, nursing it as avidly as Jesse had suckled her breast during infancy.

"You'll give me a hickey," Olivia said, too breathy to be discouraging. She hadn't let go of Amanda's hair or her ass, either.

"So?" Amanda burred, trailing more firm, wet sucks to the other side, and repeating the steps all over again. She was working on a necklace of hickeys, actually.

"So, you know I don't like those, cut it out." Olivia nudged at the elbow still pressing into her shoulder, though she sounded only mildly annoyed and made no attempt to pull away.

It was true—the captain had warned Amanda time and again not to get too overzealous with the love bites, especially where they would be visible in public. Tacky, she called them. As if it would be such a bad thing for people to find out she had a fiancée who kissed her thoroughly and passionately. Amanda had sported hickeys on the regular throughout high school; she could just imagine what her then-twenty-something captain would have thought about the little blonde tramp at the back of the classroom, daydreaming and doodling tits and cocks in the margins of her notebook. She could just imagine what Olivia would think of her now if she revealed half the things she had done before they were together.

"It's winter," Amanda gruffed, looping her arm behind Olivia's head, to sweep aside a curtain of dark hair and continue on with her quest. "You can wear a turtleneck. Your tits look amazing in those stretchy ones, anyway."

A grim laugh rumbled up from Olivia's throat, vibrating against Amanda's lips. The captain bunched her shoulder up near her ear, blocking any further kisses on that side, but leaving the other vulnerable. "They used to, when I was younger and less . . . busty," she said, with a note of irritation that might have been about her changing figure, but more likely had to do with Amanda leaching on to the unguarded side of her neck. "And didn't have so many hot flashes."

Speaking of hot flashes. A question burned like a soldering iron in the center of Amanda's already fiery brain: had those bygone days of turtlenecks and body confidence been while Alex Cabot was still around? It was a ridiculous thing to wonder, and she'd tried to take Olivia's word for it that there was never anything romantic between her and Alex. Not anymore. That was how Olivia put it during their argument on Christmas. _I know you think there's something between me and Alex, but there just isn't. Not anymore._ Every time Amanda reminded herself that Olivia loved her— _chose_ her—she heard those words echoed back to her like Poe's infamous raven. Not anymore, not anymore . . .

Part of her wondered if Olivia also didn't want any hickeys because she was meeting Alex for lunch the next day. That had been the compromise they agreed on: Olivia would go alone, earlier in the day, her New Year's Eve night reserved just for Amanda. It had seemed more mature than whining about tagging along, and less controlling than telling Olivia not to go, but the lunch date was upon them now, and Amanda could barely contain her displeasure.

"Well, I like you hot and busty," she said, easing off of Olivia's shoulders to glide both hands down to her breasts for a possessive squeeze. "And I like you in turtlenecks, so wear one for me tomorrow, okay? If Al— if anyone comments, tell them to mind their own damn business, or your fiancée'll kick their ass."

The slip had been so brief, she thought the captain—already a little fuzzy around the edges from the wine, and drunk on Amanda's kisses—might not notice. But she did, of course. Captain Benson always noticed.

"Is that—" Olivia took Amanda by the wrists and tugged both hands away from her breasts. She used the grip to stand Amanda back a step, cutting short a heated suck just behind her jaw. "Is that what this is about? You're marking me so Alex knows I belong to you? Jesus."

She sounded more mystified than angry, at least at first. Unfortunately, Amanda had no great insight to offer. She only knew that she had started down the path and must keep going. Amanda Rollins was a lot of things—mean, broke, slut, gambler—but a quitter was not among them. "So, what if it is?" she asked, leaning towards Olivia's neck again, though it was already red as fire. The scar from Calvin Arliss' razor stood out more noticeably with the color contrast of the surrounding skin. She hadn't kissed that. "Would that be so terrible?"

"Not at all." Olivia kept her hold on Amanda's wrists, bringing both together in front of their chests and pushing forward, halting the descent upon her neck. "Why don't I just get 'Property of Detective Rollins' stamped across my ass while I'm at it? Would that be enough to convince you I'm not a philanderer like your father?"

"It might," Amanda shot back, and rotated her wrists outward and down, easily breaking free of the grip. She stepped toward Olivia, closing the space that had formed between them during the small skirmish and preventing her from moving away. This was just getting good. Olivia avoided the topic of fathers as much as possible, but now that she had opened the door, Amanda was curious to see where it led; what the captain really thought of Dean Rollins, the man she favored so strongly in looks, personality, and character flaws. "But you're the expert on fucked up daddies here, so you tell me."

Worse than the way Olivia shrunk back at the mention of her father, no matter how generalized, was the injured expression, the disappointment when she said, "My God, Amanda. You are being completely unreasonable right now. And you wonder why I haven't let you come back to work yet." She sighed wearily, as if it stung as much to say as it did to hear. But she wasn't finished.

"I'm only repeating what you said yourself—that your father cheated on your mother. I'm sorry it happened, but stop taking it out on me. I deserve a little more credit than that, don't you think?"

Amanda did think, but pride and irrational anger wouldn't allow her to admit it out loud. Nor could she abandon her spot when Olivia stated, "I'm done, move," and tried to brush past. She clamped a hand to either side of Olivia's waist and held her fast, meeting her exasperated look with one of defiance.

"Make me." Amanda downplayed the challenge with a smirk, but she had meant it. For too long, she had kept quiet about Olivia's inability to stand up for herself. The woman fought tooth and nail for other people, sometimes those she barely even knew, but seldom put the same effort into her own defense.

Oh, Captain Benson could, with a single glance, eviscerate anyone who crossed her in the squad room, but Olivia? Olivia still believed the lies her mother had told her: that she was a mistake, unlovable, unworthy. That she deserved to be slapped around and mistreated, because of some fundamental flaw she had no control over—her existence. There had been glimpses of it for a while now, whether it was her avoidance of food, her tentativeness about correcting Noah when he smarted off, or her determination to give Amanda whatever she wanted in bed, despite how it affected her.

But Christmas Day was the worst example. Not only did she let Beth Anne off scot-free for the slap, she'd actually apologized like it was her fault. The real kicker, though—the one that still put a knot in the pit of Amanda's already weak stomach—was hearing her tell Jesse that she had gotten hurt by accident, all the while holding a cold compress to her puffy pink cheek. It was the exact same thing Beth Anne used to tell Amanda and Kim when they were little and concerned about Mama's latest black eye or bloody lip (or broken wrist or the bruises, God, always so many bruises . . . ). "Mama just had an accident, ladybugs. I'll be okay."

Long ago, before any of the kids were even born, Amanda had vowed that her children would never hear those words coming out of their mother's mouth. Now, she'd failed at protecting them from it, and she'd failed at protecting Olivia from the violence that ran in her family, like blond hair or dimples. Well, no more. Her daddy hadn't always gone about it the right way, but he at least made sure she knew how to fight for herself. The tickle tortures and merciless teasing, being thrown into the deep end before she knew how to swim, learning how to throw a punch before she'd learned how to write her own name—it had toughened her up. Taught her not to take shit from anyone.

And now it was Olivia's turn.

"'Make me?'' Olivia repeated, incredulous. She looked as though she were on the verge of laughter, but it passed without producing a sound. "You're behaving like a five-year-old, you know that, right?"

"Don't know many five-year-olds who could do this," Amanda said, and slid her hands inside the seat of Olivia's slacks, groping firmly at the curves beneath. She inched the waistband down with each squeeze, until it pooled around Olivia's hips, ready to spill to the ground. (The belt jingled softly.) "Do you?"

"You can't seriously still be in the mood?" Olivia reached behind with her right arm to tug one of Amanda's hands off her ass. Since the surgery on her left shoulder, she occasionally had difficulty with that side, the range of motion more limited than on the right. She couldn't bend it back to catch at Amanda's other hand, and that appeared to frustrate her more than anything else. "I know I'm not."

"You sure? 'Cause I've noticed two very big inconsistencies in your story." Amanda glanced pointedly at Olivia's full breasts, the cleavage of which swelled from her bra and the drooping cowl, her nipples still stiff against the thin mauve blouse. With the hand that remained inside Olivia's slacks, she traced her fingers along the elastic waistband of the bikini briefs, following it to the front and pressing her palm to the captain's pubic mound. Just beyond lay a wet heat that moistened her fingertips when she grazed the fabric covering it. "Make that three."

Olivia folded her lips into a thin line, too late to muffle the whimper that passed through them. She closed her legs tightly together, barring any further exploration, but either wouldn't or couldn't push Amanda's hand away. Neither option was acceptable. "I'll cool down. And so will you," she said, a bit off balance in her tone and her footing. As if she were teetering on the inside. "You can sleep on the couch tonight."

"What if that's not what I want?" Amanda asked, gliding her free hand along Olivia's hip, up the length of her side, across the increasing ebb and flow of her cleavage. "The couch or the cool down."

"Too damn bad. You don't get any say in this one. Not when you're in this . . . state of mind." Olivia gestured vaguely outward, before balling her hand back into a fist at her side. She shied from the touch trailing along her shoulder and on up her neck.

"And what're you gonna do to stop me? You gonna fight me?" Amanda stroked the curve of Olivia's jawline, for a moment forgetting the task at hand as she admired its shape. She roved absently over the bikini briefs with her other hand, making no attempt to gain access, nor to draw away.

"Amanda. Stop it."

That sharp note of warning should have been enough to call Amanda off, but she was on a roll now. She could sense the tension mounting in Olivia with each second that passed (counted off by the incessant ticking of her watch on the dresser top), until the captain practically thrummed aloud. It was like playing chicken on the train tracks of Loganville, the rails vibrating beneath her feet so furiously she would feel it for hours afterwards, the whistle deafening as the freight approached at high speed, its conductor waving frantically for the damn fool kids up ahead to get out of the way. Amanda had always been the last one off the tracks.

"Come on, Liv. Fight me. Show me whatcha got."

Angry tears were forming in Olivia's eyes and she bore down visibly, clenched as tight as her fists, refusing to let the teardrops fall, refusing to defend herself. "Jesus Christ. 'Manda, please."

Amanda had come too far to turn back now. She knew Olivia would hate her next move—that, if this horror show of a seduction hadn't already triggered her terribly, this next part would—and she did it anyway. Somebody had to teach Olivia to protect herself, even if it was from her own fiancée. "Fight, goddammit," Amanda snarled, sinking her fingers into Olivia's lush brown mane, gathering a fistful, and jerking it taut.

Beyond snagging her fingers mid-stroke on an occasional tangle, she had never pulled Olivia's hair before. She never once considered it, not even in the throes of passion, when her mind shut off and her body took over. Some light hair pulling could be sexy, in her opinion, but her captain made it very clear early on in their sexual relationship that she did not enjoy the sensation. At all. Amanda hadn't needed to ask why. Lewis was a hair puller; she'd read it in the reports, listened to Mrs. Mayer describe it from a hospital bed, heard Olivia cry about it in her sleep. And now, Amanda had done the same thing on purpose, not to injure or to punish, but to get the desired reaction—which was just as bad, really.

They gasped in unison, Olivia wincing when her head crooked abruptly to one side, eyes squeezing shut on reflex and expelling the tears she'd just fought to contain. Immediately, Amanda released the hair, shaking off the strands that tried to cling to her fingers, as if that might also rid her of the deep shame she already felt. She opened her mouth to apologize, but the words wouldn't come. They were snatched away altogether, along with her breath, when the freight train finally made impact.

Actually, it was Olivia, but the burst of immense power that drove Amanda backwards so rapidly she couldn't find her footing—could do little more than hold on and ride it out—felt like she had always imagined it would, waiting on those railroad tracks and wondering what would happen if she hesitated a second too long. The train probably wouldn't have held her by the arms though, keeping her upright until she bumped against the foot of the bed and sat down heavily. It wouldn't have stood above her, panting and trembling uncontrollably while she tried to get her bearings after the sudden change of location. And it wouldn't have given her one final push onto her back, grabbed her wrists, and pinned them to the mattress above her head.

"Is this what you want?" Olivia demanded, leaning over her, a knee beside her on the bed. The captain's long hair, the beautiful wavy locks Amanda had just mistreated so, hung in the space between like a dark shroud for them to hide under. (How Amanda wished they could.) "It's not enough that we've barely spoken in five days, now you wanna get off on hurting each other? What the fuck, Rollins?"

The only time Olivia called her Rollins these days was at work or when she was making a point. And sometimes in jest, but there was nothing in her demeanor that suggested banter would be an appropriate response. Amanda couldn't have joked, even if she wanted to. Once the shock of being bodily moved from one side of the room to the other wore off, the pain had begun. Olivia hadn't been rough in her navigation—though Lord knew she had every right to be—and even now, she barely held Amanda down, her grip loose enough that baby Tilly could have escaped it. But that graceless plop onto the bed had set something off inside Amanda, like a kerosene lamp getting knocked over, and her gut was presently being consumed by the fire.

She tried her damnedest not to let it show, but the intense heat in her belly, the jolts like fireplace pokers stabbing into her lungs, kidneys, and intestines, were too excruciating to ignore. A weak groan gave her away, and she felt the pressure on her wrists instantly relax, a terrified expression crossing the face above her.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" Olivia asked, her voice rising to the upper register. She seldom reached that pitch, unless one of the kids got injured or she was scared. It was the way she'd sounded at the bank, right after Amanda had been shot. "Honey, I'm so—"

No. Amanda didn't want to win that way, by playing on the captain's sympathies, by playing the sad little victim who couldn't take what she dished out. And as bad as the pain was, that was how badly she wanted Olivia right then. It had gone beyond desire and attraction, to someplace dark, ugly, and  
( _mean_ )  
hateful. Amanda didn't like to think about that place. She'd done her best to avoid it for years, first drowning it with alcohol, cigarettes, sex, gambling—all of Daddy's habits, passed on to his Mandy girl—then she moved on to work, a string of meaningless relationships, her child, more work. And now: Olivia. She had never craved another person the way she did at that moment, the captain leaning over her with so much concern in those wide, dark eyes.

Amanda easily slipped her wrists free of their lax restraint, wrapped both arms around Olivia's neck, and pulled her into a deep kiss as she was still apologizing. God, it hurt to do it, but once Olivia was in her mouth, she hardly noticed the pain. The captain didn't respond at first, probably too stunned to do much besides ride it out as Amanda sucked hungrily at her tongue. Then she made a soft, indistinct sound that might have passed for arousal if she hadn't grasped Amanda's forearms and pried them from around her neck.

"For Christ's sake, Amanda," she cried, tearing her lips away from the kiss and holding Amanda at arm's length, like a small, feral animal. "Stop!"

"Please, Liv." Amanda gazed up pleadingly, fingers latching onto Olivia's forearms in return, preventing her from letting go entirely. She hadn't meant to work herself up to the verge of tears, but as her vision blurred, prisming the room and the woman above her, she found that she didn't want to hold them back. They could be used to her advantage. "I need it. I need you."

She gathered Olivia to her then, hugging her around the waist, face buried against the flowing mauve top that outlined the ghost of the abdomen underneath. "I just need you, darlin'," she murmured, pressing warm, apologetic kisses to the gentle slope of belly. "So much it's drivin' me crazy."

Olivia sighed deeply and for several moments didn't seem as if she would respond. But finally, her hand came to rest at the back of Amanda's head, smoothing the hair there with calming, repetitive strokes. "Can we just . . . " She leaned back from Amanda to look her in the eye and dry her cheeks with a swipe of both thumbs. "Can we slow it down a little?"

"Yeah." Amanda smiled and pecked at the heel of Olivia's palm as she gave another brush with her thumb, despite the lack of tears that had actually fallen. "We can do that."

But they didn't, not really. Amanda had Olivia out of the slacks and blouse in seconds flat. ( _Clink!_ went the belt as she kicked the clothes aside, even though she knew her captain hated it when she did that.) She looked Olivia in the eye while she drew the bikini briefs down her hips, these a bit more slowly than the others, and let them drop from her thighs.

It was clear from the empty brown irises and glazed expression that Olivia wasn't fully present as she  
( _ripped open_ )  
unbuttoned the front of Amanda's shirt and tossed it on the floor with the rest. That was okay, though; Amanda herself had never felt so empty and detached as she did now, pulling Olivia down onto the bed, tugging off her own underwear, climbing on top of her soon-to-be wife. She faced Olivia's knees, crawling backwards over her until she was close enough for Olivia to hook both arms around, grab her ass, and jerk her downwards with such force she cried out in pleasure—and in pain. She was glad the captain ignored the sound. This needed to hurt.

Amanda needed to hurt.

Other than a few hasty kisses on the insides of the thighs, a few kittenish licks between, they dispensed with foreplay. There were no verbal cues or hums of approval to guide them, assuring their partner was enjoying herself. They had used this position numerous times and were in tune enough with each other's body to know what felt right  
( _none of this feels right_ )  
so the sound effects were mostly unnecessary. Neither would have heard them, anyway. Amanda didn't even call out when she came, instead focusing her energies on Olivia's clit, probing with her lips, her tongue, her teeth, until the captain bucked twice, fitfully, and was still.

The orgasm might have been faked, but Amanda didn't think so. If Olivia was going to pretend to get off, she'd have to do better than that. She was wiping her mouth when Amanda hiked one leg over to join the other and turned to stretch out alongside her, both of them lying on their backs and staring up at the ceiling.

"Did you come?" she asked, for the sake of making conversation. Normally they held each other afterwards, chatting lightly about nothing until one or both of them drifted off to sleep. But she couldn't imagine doing that after what had just transpired. She'd had angry sex before, but never with Olivia, never with someone who mattered. And those relationships had always ended immediately after.

(Shit, what did she just do?)

Olivia rapped her fingers against her chest repeatedly, the only noise in the room—besides the women's heavy breathing—for a long time. It sounded like horse hooves pounding in the distance, or a racing heartbeat. "Mm-hmm. You?"

"Yeah. You know me . . . anytime, anywhere." Amanda winced at how poorly that had come out. She'd meant it as a compliment to Olivia's nearly flawless record at bringing her to climax, and as a joke about her own hyperactive libido, but it just made her sound like a slut. And kind of a dick, considering her fiancée's occasional difficulty reaching orgasm.

Sonuvabitch. She hated how stiff and awkward they were, lying there side by side without touching, hands folded to their chests like the dead awaiting burial. That hurt worse than the inferno blazing in her abdomen. Deciding to take a chance, she tapped Olivia on the shoulder and, when she had the captain's attention, invited her over with open arms. To Amanda's immense relief, the offer was accepted—after a moment's hesitation—and she guided Olivia belly-down into the space beside her, wedged snugly between her arm and flank.

Resting a hand just above Amanda's breast, Olivia propped her chin against the back of it and gazed up searchingly, her eyes darker than ever and filled with so many questions. They were questions Amanda didn't have the answers for, and she discouraged them with a drowsy smile, running her fingers through the part in Olivia's hair to sweep the strands back from her troubled face. She was relieved when Olivia closed her eyes and gave a long, weary sigh.

"Sleepy?" Amanda asked, knowing full well that wasn't it. Olivia didn't like to look people in the eye when she lied to them—or, if it was too painful to witness, when they lied to her. She couldn't bear the betrayal.

"Mm."

Well, Amanda had gotten her wish. Olivia didn't want to talk or hash out their feelings. It should have been a sign for Amanda to shut her mouth and just be happy she didn't have to explain herself (she couldn't), make excuses (there were none), or apologize (it would never be enough); but as she continued stroking Olivia's hair back, she caught a glimpse of the earrings the captain hadn't had the chance to remove before things heated up. It was a simple pair of studs, small, pretty, and nothing like the extravagant diamond-encrusted pair from Cabot. And yet.

"Plannin' on wearing these for your date tomorrow, are ya?" Amanda kept her tone light and playful, batting Olivia's earlobe back and forth gently with her fingertip. "I'm not sure they're fancy enough for her. Maybe you should wear the ones she sent. Or would that be bad luck? Like me seeing you in your dress before the weddin'?"

Olivia's eyes opened again with such little fanfare, Amanda's breath caught when she looked up and found them staring straight at her, unblinking and black as pitch. "Did you really just fuck me as punishment because you're jealous of Alex?" she asked dully, as if all the color had drained from her spirit, as well as from her eyes. "Is that how it's going to be between us?"

 _If I marry you_. Olivia hadn't said that part, but Amanda heard it loud and clear. Her heart gave a wild kick inside her chest, and she shook her head adamantly. Try as she might to keep her voice under control, it came out harsh and much too high, too frantic. "What? No, that's not— is that what you think this was, a punishment? I thought _not_ having sex was the punishment. And would you quit sayin' I'm jealous of that rich bitch? I'm not. If she wants to lavish you with expensive jewelry—"

Planting a hand on either side of Amanda, the captain pushed herself upright, scooted to the edge of the bed, and sat with her back turned, feet on the floor. She was still wearing her bra, the one piece of clothing Amanda hadn't stripped from her body. The pink indentations in her flesh, just visible beneath the straps and band, inexplicably made Amanda want to cry. She reached out to trace her fingers over the temporary marks, but the second she grazed skin, Olivia flinched from the contact.

"Liv, I—" Amanda drew back her hand as from sharp, gnashing teeth and let it drop lifelessly against the bed. For the first time since they had become intimate with each other, she wasn't sure if Olivia didn't want to be touched at all, or just didn't want to be touched by her. She really had destroyed everything, hadn't she? Same old Amanda.

She forced herself to prop up on one elbow, though the pain was tremendous and made her grunt with effort, left her shaky and panting. "I'm sorry. You're right, okay? I am kinda jealous. She can give you anything you want, but here you are, slummin' it with me. She sends you diamonds like it's nothing, and I practically have to sell my soul to afford your watch and— and stuff."

"I didn't ask you to fix the watch. I told you I would do that later, when we weren't saving up for the wedding." Olivia refused to turn around, instead directing the heated response outward, to the air, the walls, the carpet—anything but Amanda. It was difficult to tell from behind, but it looked like she might be crying. Her shoulders were rounded inward, posture sagging, head slightly bowed. Defeat.

"I know. I know you did, but I just . . . " Amanda ran a hand through her hair in frustration, clutching the strands close to the scalp and giving a vicious little yank. She deserved worse. She deserved for Olivia to walk out the door and never speak to her again. "I wanted to surprise you with something nice. Somethin' really special. Like you are to me."

"You sure you weren't just trying to one-up Alex?" Olivia asked bitterly, her profile coming into view as she glanced sidelong, though not enough to see Amanda or her anguish. "Show me you could spend as much as she does? Do you even love me, Amanda, or is this all some game—some bet—you wanna win?"

That one took the wind out of Amanda's lungs, leaving her gasping for air as she scrambled onto her knees and silently implored Olivia to look at her, like a supplicant in the pews begging for God to reveal himself. She had lost the right to touch, to ask anything of Olivia that she didn't want to give. "Of course I love you. Liv, please . . . " Amanda tugged anxiously at her bottom lip, racking her brain for the right words to undo this mess. She couldn't find them. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, darlin'. I love you so much I ache inside."

Finally, Olivia gazed over her shoulder, with the same searching look from before. If she had been crying, her eyes were dry now. The sadness was stitched into her features instead, like a fine gold thread that ran beneath the surface, as vital as any organ. "That didn't feel like love to me," she said, glancing down at the sheets they had just dirtied. "That felt like you wanted to hurt me. I don't know if it's because of Alex, or because your mom stirred things up for you, or if—"

She cut herself off there, biting at her lower lip, a sure sign she had more to say but doubted whether she should go on. She might as well; it couldn't possibly do any more damage than was already done.

"If what?" Amanda prompted.

"Were you trying to trigger me on purpose?" Olivia sounded more like she was telling than asking. She studied the bandage on Amanda's abdomen for a moment—mostly a means to hide the ugly, scabbing wound underneath, at this point—then looked her full in the face. "Sometimes I think you like me a little broken."

Now it was Amanda's turn to flinch back. Her hand instinctively went to the wound, the one thing she could protect. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

Olivia tracked the movement of Amanda's hand with her eyes, but she didn't reach out with concern as she normally would. She only watched. "It's safer for you that way, isn't it? If I'm the one falling apart, you don't have to. You get to be the hero and ignore all your own problems."

"Oh my fucking—" Amanda groaned and threw her other hand up in exasperation, as if she had never heard anything so preposterous in all her born days. When she resorted to the big gestures, it meant she was losing ground. She could deny it all she wanted—and she would—but deep down she feared Olivia might be right. It did feel safer dealing with the captain's issues; usually the only person who got hurt by them was Olivia herself. In typical addict style, Amanda's issues always seemed to drag everybody else down with her. She couldn't even play a damn lottery ticket without ending up here, her engagement coming apart at the seams.

Yeah, Olivia was right. It felt a whole hell of a lot better being the one who held it together. The fixer, the hero. Amanda didn't know how to be anything else. "What problems?" she demanded, injury forgotten as she gave an exaggerated shrug, all hands and shoulders, then threw her palms down against her bare thighs. "I'm fine. No wait, that's your line, sorry. I'm fucking great. I have to be. Someone's gotta make sure you're still breathing in the middle of the night after your fourth glass of Merlot and the extra pill to help you sleep. Someone's gotta hold you when you wake up screaming."

Those were some really cheap shots. The pill thing had only happened once, months earlier, after a brutal case involving a mentally ill mother who set her children on fire, then tried to commit suicide; Olivia had held the little girl's hand, the one portion of her small body that wasn't burnt beyond recognition, while she died. The captain had insomnia for weeks after, and doubled up on her medication—liquid and capsule form—in a moment of sleep-deprived desperation that Amanda didn't find out about until she couldn't wake Olivia to migrate from the couch to their bed. As for the screaming, her night terrors were mild and infrequent now, and Gigi seldom let one slip by.

Truth be told, Amanda did miss rolling over, half asleep, to wrap her arms around a tentative and trembling Olivia, feeling her drift off within moments of settling into the embrace. It had made Amanda feel special, providing that comfort. Like she was giving Olivia something no one else could.

"If not me, who's it gonna be, Liv?" she asked, gesturing to the dresser she'd pinned her fiancée to no more than twenty minutes ago. The dresser with that damned expensive watch on top. _A little pretty for my city girl - Love, Me._ The dresser with those damned expensive earrings inside. _Something blue._ (All of this because of some overpriced jewelry and a few simple words.) "It ain't gonna be Alex Cabot, that's for damn sure."

Gone perfectly still and quiet, Olivia stared at Amanda like she didn't recognize her. No, more like she was memorizing the face of someone she would never see again. Someone to whom she must say goodbye. Then she stood up without a word, went to the dresser, and opened the top drawer, briefly rummaging inside. She withdrew the small box that contained the earrings from Alex, clutching it tightly in her fist for a moment before tossing it underhand onto the bed. It tumbled across the comforter and came to rest against Amanda's knee.

"What?" Amanda asked, regarding the box as if it were a dead rodent. She nudged it away from her knee.

"Take them. You're so goddamned convinced I can't live without them, without her . . . well, there's your evidence." Olivia waved sharply towards the box, with mannerisms similar to an obscene gesture. "They're yours now. Return them, pawn them, throw them off the fucking Brooklyn Bridge for all I care. I don't ever want to see them again."

Amanda scoffed loudly, snatching up the little box that had caused such big problems. And the note—why did it have to include that smug, monogrammed notecard? Two days after her mother left, she had broken down and snuck a peek through Olivia's purse while the captain was showering. Sure enough, the card was tucked away inside her wallet. The bag and all its contents smelled faintly of flowers.

"I don't want your damn earrings. Here," said Amanda, and thrust the box out on her upturned palm. When no effort was made at retrieval, she gave it a harsh little shake, the earrings skittering inside like heavy, agitated insects. "I'm serious, Liv. Here, come and get 'em."

Olivia hung back obstinately, arms folded tight across her chest. Any other time, it would have been a welcome sight to see her naked from the abdomen down, her long, golden legs pressed together almost demurely at the thigh, concealing all but a brief swath of pubic hair, black as ebony. She had one foot hooked behind the other heel, a knee jutting forward distinctly, punctuating the strong, sinuous sentence of her body—a clear and resounding no, from top to bottom. "Or what? You'll _make_ me?" she asked, lips curled into a faint sneer. "Go ahead. Show me what you're really made of, Mandy Jo."

That fucking name. Amanda hated that name, and it was obvious from the way Olivia enunciated each syllable that she knew precisely how much it annoyed her. For one second, as they faced off with each other—Olivia standing at harsh, provocative angles, and Amanda seated ramrod straight on the bed, seething—the pressure began to build, and with it a kind of terror that surged through Amanda like boiling acid. She dropped her arm weakly at her side, the box dislodging from her limp fist and plopping onto the comforter. She had almost thrown it at Olivia. It wasn't heavy, just a leatherette case that opened by hinge to display the contents on a little velvet cushion. But with Amanda's aim and the dark, ugly anger driving her on, she could have made it hurt.

How many times had she watched her daddy hurl things at her mama? Lamps, full salt shakers, coffee mugs still dripping with soap suds, a telephone ripped from the wall, his children's toys, his fists . . .

 _Church_ , she thought desperately. _Oh, please, church._

"Forget it," Olivia muttered, her tense posture wilting as if the charge that went out of Amanda had taken her energy with it as well. Arms gone lank at her sides, she turned away from the bed and shook the thick brown hair around her shoulders. She was facing the dresser, studying the open top drawer, the wine glass prone on the stained carpet, her blazer crumpled on the floor—the scene of the crime. And the Breitling ticking away above it all.

"You wanna know what she said to me?"

The silence had lasted for so long, Amanda jumped at the sound of Olivia's hushed and tearful voice. Another geyser of acid erupted in her guts, and she took a sharp breath, releasing it shakily. "Wh-who?"

"Beth Anne. Your mama." Olivia glanced back with a faint smirk, too much sadness in her eyes for the expression to have its typical impact. It faded into a lopsided frown, her vision slipping into the middle distance, that place where she couldn't be reached. She tilted her head to the side, like she was contemplating a strange, evocative piece of art, and repeated in a voice eerily similar to Beth Anne's, "I can see why your mama never loved you. And I broke your watch, you arrogant, crazy bitch."

That stole Amanda's breath away altogether, and she hunched her shoulders, forking a hand against her side the way she did when she got winded on a run. She'd known it was Beth Anne who broke the watch. She had known it all along. But having it confirmed by Olivia in such horrible words—and with that horrible blank look on her face—hurt worse than Amanda could have imagined. Maybe she'd still hoped she was wrong. That her own mother wouldn't be so cruel, especially to the woman she loved.

What a fool she was. Cruelty ran in the family.

"Oh, Liv," she whispered, choking back a sob. She couldn't go to Olivia and hold her like she wanted to—not now, and maybe not ever, after tonight. Finally, left with nothing else, she cried. Not the superficial tears she had mustered up before through sheer frustration and rage, but genuine tears that coursed down her cheeks so hotly they burned. "I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry."

Olivia gazed at her, _through_ her, for several moments, then with a pivot of the ankle, turned from the dresser and made her way over to the bed. Or at least that was how it appeared to Amanda through the haze of tears, until the captain continued on towards the bedroom door, her long stride carrying her there purposefully. She'd had no intention of stopping by the bed.

"Where you goin'? Don't leave," Amanda said brokenly, scrubbing her knuckles across her eyes and cheeks. She sounded as needy and pathetic as a child clinging to its mother's legs and begging her not to go, but she didn't care. If she had to get down on her knees and beg Olivia not to leave her, she would do it.

_Just like Daddy, ain't it so, Mandy Jo?_

Ain't it so?

"I have to pee, if that's all right with you," said Olivia, grabbing her robe off the hook on the back of the door and punching into the sleeves. She wrapped the silky material securely around herself and pulled the sash tight at her waist, ensuring there were no gaps in the robe. She had only succeeded in accentuating her curvy figure, the pink floral print on black appearing painted directly to her body, especially when she turned to open the bedroom door. "I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed, you're the one who's injured."

"Wait. Liv—"

"Goodnight, Amanda."

And with that, she was gone, easing the door shut behind her. For at least a full minute, Amanda sat staring at the empty spot where her robe had been, willing her to return. But she wasn't coming back, that much was apparent after another four or five minutes yielded nothing more than the hiss of running water from the bathroom. Amanda had the sneaking suspicion that the active tap was to muffle the sound of weeping or vomiting, and it gutted her to think of Olivia hiding either of those things from her. She had brought it on herself, though.

Most of the last half hour felt like a dream—the worst Amanda ever had—but she remembered getting mad at her fiancée for crying. Her daddy used to do that, too. _Snivelin'_ , he called it, whenever his wife or daughters were too emotional for his liking. As in, "Quit snivelin', you dumb bitch, you're upsetting the girls." Once, Amanda had run to him, crying because she'd fallen off her bicycle; his solution was to make her get back on the bike and pedal while he jogged alongside, mocking her tears and kicking the wheels at random to try and knock her off balance. She never fell off her bike again after that, and seldom  
( _sniveled_ )  
cried in front of her daddy. To this day, she seldom cried in front of anyone.

Just Olivia. And now that was over as well.

Amanda felt helpless sitting in the middle of an empty bed in an empty room, naked except for her bra, the ticking of that damned watch about to drive her insane. The watch her mother had smashed. The daughter that was smashed too.

She had to get out of here. Moving quickly, she collected her clothes off the floor and put them on her body, though it felt as if she were dressing someone else. Even her pants seemed tighter, and she switched them out for a pair of dirty jeans grabbed from the hamper. She left the belt and jacket on the armchair; her wrinkled Oxford, off by one button, would suffice. Onto her feet she strapped the first pair of black boots she scrounged from underneath the bed. The earring box was directly in her eyeline when she bent down to lace her boots, and she pocketed it without a second thought. Standing was the hard part, but she managed to boost herself upright by leaning heavily on the mattress and springing with her knees. They crackled like Styrofoam, stiffened from weeks without her daily run, or even just a jog on the treadmill. But they held.

She grabbed a coat from the hall closet on her way out the front door. To where, she had no idea, but she'd watched her daddy storm off after countless arguments with her mama, whom he left broken and bloody (and crying in the bathroom), enough times to know for certain: she'd figure it out.

After all, she was Dean Rollins' little girl.

**. . .**


	24. Chapter 23: Talitha Cumi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am loving all the reviews from the last couple chapters. I think I broke some of you, and I feel bad about it, but it's also kind of awesome (that people are so invested in the story, that is)? Please address all your therapy bills to Wolf Entertainment, though, because I am a penniless fanfic writer. Hope I didn't scare anybody away with how dark things have gotten between our girls. They're endgame for me, that's all I'm sayin'. Doesn't mean I can't invite other 'ships over to play once in a while...

* * *

Then He took the child by the hand, and said to her, "Talitha cumi," which means,  
"Little girl, I say to you, arise."

\- Mark 5:41

* * *

## CHAPTER 23: Talitha Cumi

. . .

The suitcase could wait until morning to be unpacked. Her clothes were probably already in a heap—albeit a freshly dry-cleaned heap of cashmeres, silks, and bespoke footwear—after being tossed around luggage compartments like the rocks she'd tried transforming into gems as a kid, with the tumbler her parents got her for Christmas.

She had been thinking about her mother and father a lot lately, and missing them so much it hurt to breathe. This time of year was meant to be spent with family, but hers was all dead. It afforded her a certain freedom, financially and geographically. When her father had passed away three years ago, he left the family home and fortune to her in his will, as expected; she sold the former and used much of the latter to aid in relocating victims of domestic violence. As it turned out, there was still much to go around. Her father had been a very wealthy man. She would have traded every last penny to have him back, to have her mother, who gave the best advice, made the most delicious hot cocoa you ever tasted, and who died not knowing where her only daughter lived—if that life could even be called living.

Most of it she had spent pining for the city she loved, the career she lost, and the woman she couldn't get out of her head. She'd always been attracted to women, from the time she donned her first tutu at the age of six—looking like a baby giraffe in a pink leotard—and fell madly in love with the ballet instructor, to the day twenty-odd years later when she met an equally long-limbed, exceptionally pretty brunette with a pixie haircut and a gun. In all her days of attending the finest private schools, the most prestigious law programs, and the swankiest parties in town, she had never before met anyone like Olivia Benson. Intelligent and sophisticated, but grounded, real, and tougher than all the hotshot attorneys in Manhattan. Olivia wasn't born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and had she been, she would have spat it out and demanded justice in its stead.

Not to mention that body, good God. It was phenomenal at thirty, intimidating even, compared to a flat chest and a willowy frame; at fifty, still confident, but now unconcerned with outside opinion, it was breathtaking. Then a lieutenant, Olivia had looked incredible the last time they were together, and it was so, so hard to leave her again.

In all her travels since those early years—and she had been around the world more than once—she still hadn't met anyone who lived up to Captain Olivia Benson. Soon to become Olivia Rollins-Benson. Hearing that news had been somewhat akin to getting shot in the shoulder again. She didn't handle it well. Accusing Amanda Rollins of being abusive, Olivia of not recognizing abuse, hadn't been her finest moment. Then she'd sent the earrings on a whim, or what she believed was a whim at the time (could spending two grand on a gift even be called such a thing?), not to mention drunk dialing Olivia shortly before Christmas and practically begging her to agree to this visit.

"Oh God," she groaned at the memory, and rolled onto her back to stare up at the bright coffered ceiling. Now, here she was alone in an oversized, overpriced hotel suite in the city, the night before New Year's Eve, and too exhausted to get up and turn out the damn lights. She hadn't the slightest idea what she'd been thinking, coming back here like this. Did she hope to just ride in on a white horse and steal Olivia away from that little blonde trollop with the hayseed accent?

(Kind of, yeah.)

It was a terrible, haphazard plan and she would never go through with it, just like the million other times she hadn't found the courage to tell Olivia her true feelings. Something had always seemed to get in the way: Elliot Stabler, assassination attempts, witness protection, career changes, the Congo, underground operations. Even through all that, Olivia had always been there, truer than the North Star, the lost and lonesome traveler's guide home. But now that star shone for someone else, and she didn't think she could ever get it back. She had run too far and too long.

If only her mother were there to bring her a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies, lie down beside her with their heads on the same pillow, and explain exactly how and why it would all work out. If only.

"Hey Siri, turn off the lights?" she tried, heaving a dejected sigh when the recessed lighting overhead and the wall sconces didn't respond. It appeared she would have to drag her jet-lagged ass out of bed and over to the light switch, after all. Fine, she needed to put on pajamas anyway; but she wasn't showering until morning, damn it.

Just as she sat up, her cell phone began to buzz on the nightstand. She gave it a suspicious look, wondering who on earth would be calling her at 10:00 PM on a Wednesday night. Her associates knew she was out of town for personal reasons. They wouldn't contact her unless it was an emergency, and in her line of work, emergencies were often life or death. But when she turned the phone over, the name displayed on the screen made her heart pound even faster than one of those late night crisis calls:

_Liv._

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she answered on the third buzz, assuming the calm, confident tone she'd perfected in the courtroom, during even the most difficult trials. "Hey, Liv."

For several moments there was no reply, and she held the phone away from her ear to check that the call hadn't dropped. The picture of Olivia, cheeks aglow from the wine and the table lamp—snapped during their last dinner out together—was still on the screen. (If the ringer had been on when the call came through, the hotel room would have trilled with "Barcarolle," the light and prancing female duet from Offenbach's _Les Contes d'Hoffmann._ It wasn't an opera they had attended together, but the lyrics reminded her so of her dear, longtime friend.)

Then a confused and groggy voice asked, "Alex?"

Her heart sank. It sounded like Olivia had dialed her by mistake, possibly while half asleep. "Yeah, it's me. Are you in bed already? The Benson I knew kept ungodly hours."

It was meant as a joke, a lighthearted reference to the good old days when they were younger and far better at handling sleep deprivation, but it fell flat, as did most of Alex's attempts at humor. In fact, the only person who had ever seemed to find her amusing was the one breathing into the opposite end of the phone. She thought Olivia might have gone back to sleep, until she heard the sniffling, the deep, stuttering breaths. Those weren't sleeping sounds. Olivia was crying.

"Liv honey, what's wrong?" Alex asked, sitting forward at the edge of the bed like she was leaning in to speak to a trauma victim. Everything she knew about compassion, empathy, and fighting for another person—not just a case—she had learned from Olivia Benson.

"I, um . . . are you in the city yet?" The question was vaguely slurred, but it might have been from the emotion clogging Olivia's voice. Despite her appreciation of a fine red wine, she wasn't a heavy drinker, or at least she never had been before. Alex had only seen her tipsy once or twice, and she'd been too far over her own limit to pass any judgment at the time. If Olivia _was_ drunk dialing her, something was very wrong.

"I just got in about an hour ago. Checked into my hotel room thirty minutes after that." Alex glanced at the clock on the nightstand, confirming her account. She realized she was wide awake now, though not five minutes earlier she had been fully prepared to sleep like the dead. "Why? What do you need?"

Several moments passed in silence, save for the breathy sounds on the other end of the line. When Olivia did speak again, it was with such childlike vulnerability, Alex felt it as keenly as a dagger in the heart. "Do you— do you think you could come over, maybe? I can't leave them. They're asleep, and I can't . . . the kids, I mean."

She was definitely drinking. But what startled Alex most was hearing her ask for something. Olivia did not ask for things. Warrants, at one time; occasionally the last potsticker, although she was more apt to snatch it up with her chopsticks and a devilish grin; and once, she had asked Alex to zip up the back of a dress she easily could have reached herself. But when it came to the real necessities, the things she had to open herself up in order to receive, she relied on no one else. Trusted no one else.

"You want me to come to your apartment?" Alex asked, trying not to sound as surprised as she felt. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd been in Olivia's home. There was one night when she thought an invite would be extended—an invite that would lead to many more—but they had both let it slip by. "Where's Amanda? She's not there with you?"

"No." It came out as a whisper, a sigh. Olivia turned away from the phone to muffle another noise, and when she returned, her voice was so strained and thin she was almost inaudible. "She left. We had a— a fight. Bad one. I need to talk to someone. If it's too late, I can—"

"It's not." Alex rose from the bed and went to the suitcase she hadn't planned to unpack till the following morning. "Give me your address. I'll be there as soon as I can."

**. . .**

Almost half an hour passed between the time Olivia called Alex, and the arrival knock at the door. Just enough time for Olivia to begin to regret asking her old friend over—or she would have, at least, had she been more sober. She had the vague sense that she should be embarrassed about calling Alex up in the middle of the night because she needed a shoulder to cry on, but the wine dulled that, too. She'd had two glasses after hearing the front door open and close, and checking the bedroom to find Amanda gone. Then she had three more, one after each of the phone calls Amanda didn't answer. Then she called Alex.

It was sad and desperate. She should have just waited until they met for lunch tomorrow, and unloaded then. But God, that argument had been ugly. The worst one she'd ever had with Amanda; perhaps the worst she ever had with any of her lovers. The things they said to each other . . . the things they had done . . .

Olivia wasn't naïve. She knew about angry sex—how it was supposedly a healthy form of expression in a relationship, and all the women who wrote in to magazines such as _Cosmo_ or _Allure_ claimed it was the best sex ever—and she had engaged in some milder versions, once with her first serious boyfriend after Daniel, then a few times with Brian Cassidy. She was always the aggressor. The pain of being used and discarded by the first boy (first person, really) she had thought loved her led to that initial trial. She hated it. And she hated it even more with Cassidy, those times after Lewis, when she had needed to dominate, to release the rage that squatted inside of her like an imp, red-eyed and whispering horrors.

( _He raped you, you just don't remember it—all those drugs, the vodka, no food, no water, no sleep. Four days alone with him, you know he did more than talk, look, touch. He knew your body by the end. The reactions it would give him. You played dead, but his hands brought you back to life, didn't they, Detective?_ Talitha cumi. _And you did. You did._ )

The moment Amanda had squeezed her breasts and undone her belt from behind, Olivia had barely been inside her own body. Truth be told, she hadn't felt entirely present since Christmas Day, when those long-buried memories of her mother came hurtling back with a literal slap across the face. She'd thought she was doing better for a while, but it was probably just the Merlot. The wine made it easier to ignore those images of Serena on top of her, hands around her throat; it made the ever-widening gap between herself and her fiancée more bearable; and it lessened the shame she felt each time she poured another glass, sometimes even in front of her children.

Then Amanda had touched her the way _he_ touched her, and no amount of wine could erase that thought.

She dissociated through most of it. She watched as Captain Benson and her detective played their dangerous little game, daring each other to be the one who went too far. In the end, they both did. Amanda's behavior had frightened her, not because she feared the younger woman, but because she saw something in those angry blue eyes that she had seen so often in her mother's eyes—how lacking she was, how wrong. How easy it was to stop loving her, even for those who promised they never would.

And because it felt normal. Being trapped, being goaded into fighting back. She knew Amanda hadn't done it for the enjoyment of watching her struggle, that it had been a test to see what her limits were, but her body wasn't aware of that. And still it reacted. To the groping from behind, to being pinned against the dresser, to the hair pulling; all things she disliked, all major triggers, but she'd allowed them. She got off on them. She had found pleasure in the pain. Complicit, as always. _Talitha cumi._

So, maybe it was sad and desperate to call Alex Cabot, but Olivia felt pretty damn sad and desperate. She couldn't call Dr. Lindstrom for an emergency session at 10 PM—and besides, he already lectured her enough about the difficulty of two repeat-trauma survivors, both with addiction in their histories, having a healthy, functioning relationship. She didn't need to hear "I told you so" right then. The only other person she shared intimate details with was Amanda, and the detective had made it clear she wasn't in the mood to talk it out. Consulting an old friend who gave good advice had seemed like a better option than finishing another bottle of wine and crying herself to sleep. (Although she might still do that too.)

Overheated from the sweater and the Merlot, Olivia paused to adjust her turtleneck before opening the door. She was probably as red as the knitted collar, but an earlier glance in the mirror to check her mascara—she'd looked like a member of KISS—revealed that her eye makeup wasn't the only thing smudged. A daisy chain of hickeys encircled her neck as if she wore them on a choker. She hadn't had a hickey since college, and she was even more mortified by them now than she'd been back then. They reminded her of the petechiae frequently found on corpses and abuse victims.

"Breathe," she whispered to herself ( _I_ _t's just Alex_ , she added silently), and opened the door perhaps a tad too slowly. Alex peeked around it, an apprehensive look on her pretty, aristocratic features. She hadn't aged a day since the last time Olivia saw her, and she'd looked better than ever back then. Her hair was still long, her glasses a bit too bold for her delicate face. Still Alex, in spite of everything else that had changed.

"Oh, thank God." Alex splayed a hand on the lapels of her lavender trench coat, a chic double-breasted that cinched at the waist and flared like a skirt at the bottom. Leave it to the former attorney to show up dressed to kill. "I wasn't sure I had the right apartment."

"You do," Olivia said, summoning a vague smile. She was exhausted and her face felt puffy and numb, but she could at least give the impression of being happy to see the woman she had once considered her closest friend. "I haven't aged that much, have I?"

Alex shook her head, lightly chuckling under her breath. "No. You haven't aged a bit. It's kind of annoying, actually. You're making the rest of us mere mortals look bad." As she spoke, she stepped forward and embraced Olivia, holding her extra tight for a moment, palms firm against her back. It was a good hug—genuine—and Olivia realized it was exactly what she'd needed. She didn't let it linger, but she didn't rush through it, either. "So good to see you, Liv. I'm glad you called me."

Returning the sentiment didn't feel right, not after what it had cost Olivia to get Alex here. ( _Just her engagement, that's all. Just the one person, other than her children, who had ever made her feel truly loved._ ) She thought about asking Alex to leave then, only she couldn't do it with that fond and gentle gaze directed at her.

"Come on in," she said, backing up against the door and ushering the taller woman inside. She hadn't bothered with shoes, not while she was sulking around the apartment in an oversized sweater and leggings, and her socked feet made her feel short for once, standing near Alex in those heels. She pointed to the lavender coat. "I can hang that up for you."

The dogs had padded over to greet their new visitor, tails wagging in unison like a pair of high speed windshield wipers. Always the more gregarious of the two, Frannie took the lead in earning pats on the head, while Gigi waited patiently to be noticed. The golden could be shy with strangers—mostly men, and Olivia didn't like to think about why—but she quickly took to Alex, sitting at her feet and gazing up with tongue-wagging adoration.

"Let me guess," said Alex, clapping Frannie on the rump a few times, as much to steer the pit bull away from her clothing as to assuage the wiggly butt. "This pushy little thing must be Frannie. And the one with ladylike manners and prettier blonde hair than mine is Gigi?"

"Mm-hmm." Olivia allowed the dogs a few more moments to revel in the attention, then hiked a thumb towards the living room, signaling for them to resume dozing around the Christmas tree (the kids kept begging to leave the artificial pine up for "one more day," and she hadn't the heart to tell them no just yet).

Though reluctant, both animals obeyed, a dust devil of golden fur following in their wake. Olivia fanned it away apologetically as she accepted Alex's coat, careful not to let the dander settle on the pretty fabric. During one of their long, meandering conversations years ago, she had learned that Alex only owned miniature poodles growing up, because they didn't shed and her mother was allergic to most other breeds. Why she had retained that information, she couldn't say, but it made her self-conscious about the amount of dog hair floating around the apartment. She quickly hung the coat in the closet, trying not to think about the empty hanger she used—the one Amanda's coat belonged on.

When she turned back around, Alex was watching her with a keen eye that made her feel uncomfortably exposed. She fussed with her turtleneck and gave her hair a few absent strokes, wishing she had brushed it again before Alex arrived. She'd run the brush through it immediately after her argument with Amanda, pulling so hard at the snags that her scalp prickled. The same thing had happened when Amanda tugged on her hair. Now, it was probably mussed once again by all the crying, drinking, and her own hands unconsciously toying with it.

Meanwhile, Alex looked as though she had just stepped out of a 1940's country club, where she probably summered with the likes of Hepburn and Bacall. Her dark, wide-legged trousers appeared freshly pressed, and her black satin blouse with the bishop sleeves and the loose tie neck was patterned in dainty purple flowers that perfectly matched her coat. The toe of a purple suede heel peeped out from under a pant leg, completing the look. Olivia found herself wondering if the other woman ever just loafed around in jeans and a hoodie, like most people. Probably not. Alex Cabot had never been like most people.

"We can sit at the couch or on the table," Olivia said, hating how stilted and awkward she felt as she gestured back and forth between the two options. The wine should have loosened her up considerably more than this. She should have poured larger servings—and would have, if she hadn't been alone at home with the children.

Alex raised one slender, ash-colored eyebrow, a wry little quirk about her lips, though not quite a full smile. "How much have you had to drink tonight, Liv?" she asked in her prosecutorial tone.

"What?" Olivia sensed that it was a question she would normally be offended by, but now it caught her off guard and made her want to hide the truth. No, not just to hide it—to lie outright, something she seldom did. "Why?" she asked, stalling until she could think up an answer.

"Because you just asked me if I wanted to sit _at_ the couch or _on_ the table."

"Oh." Well. Perhaps she had poured large enough servings, after all. It would explain why the room felt so off kilter and why Alex, put-together and polished as she was, looked a bit hazy around the edges. "You know what I mean," Olivia said, taking the easy out and glossing over her friend's question. "On the couch, at the table. Table has less fur."

Leaning forward at the waist, Alex glanced into the living room offset to her right, then straight ahead at the dining room table, as if she needed a preview of the furniture to which she was committing. "Couch is good," she said, lifting her hand in that direction, like Olivia might have forgotten the way. "I have a cat, so I'm used to the fur. Everything I own looks like it's made of mohair now."

Olivia wondered if her cat allergy had ever come up in any of their conversations, but she couldn't recall. Ten minutes in close proximity with a feline, and she was a red-eyed, stuffy-nosed, blotchy mess. She decided not to mention it. Unless she came into direct contact with the cat itself, she should be fine. She already had red eyes and a stuffed up nose anyway. _Blotches too_ , she thought, pinching at her collar.

"You didn't tell me you had pets," she said, trailing behind Alex into the living room and lingering back while she sat down. It felt odd having the other woman in her home, after all those times Olivia had wanted to invite her up for a nightcap, but lost the courage. Now, here she was, and Olivia longed for a different blonde entirely. She took a seat across from Alex on the couch, keeping some distance between them.

"I've only had her for a couple of months," Alex said, the implications clear even to Olivia's dulled perception. She hadn't mentioned the cat because they had barely spoken to each other in the past few months, save for a handful of hasty texts and phone calls. "Her name's Clover. I got her for the companionship mostly, which is ironic since she pretends I don't exist half the time. But you didn't ask me here to talk about my cat."

The final comment was such a subtle segue, it took a moment for Olivia to register the shift—and that it was her turn to pick up the slack. More than ever she regretted calling Alex and dragging her out in the middle of the night, just for her to come over, and what? Listen to Olivia whine around about her relationship problems? Pity the poor engaged captain who had children, dogs, and a wife-to-be (as far as she still knew), while some people only had a flighty cat to return home to? It seemed ridiculous now, and she was ashamed of the weakness it showed. No wonder Amanda had walked out on her. Amanda hated weakness.

"You want a drink?" Olivia asked, gesturing to her empty wine glass on the end table. She had selected a clean one from the cupboard after picking the other up off the bedroom carpet—that stain would probably never come out, whether she tended to it that very minute or left it for later—and now it too was clouded by red rings in an ombré pattern, each darker than the last. They could be counted like the rings inside a tree trunk, determining the inebriation of the drinker. She was approximately three-fourths of the way to being properly drunk. (Her mother had gotten trashed on far less, she noted with some smugness. Then again, Serena had always preferred the hard stuff.)

"I opened a Nero d'Avola earlier," she added as enticement. Alex was more of a white wine type of girl, but Olivia had never known her to turn down a full-bodied red with the dark undertones of the Nero. It tasted like warm blackberry jam straight from the jar. "Just letting it breathe."

"You sure that's a wise idea?" Alex regarded the wine glass and Olivia with equal skepticism. She knew some of the stories about Serena—not the worst, which belonged to her daughter alone—but much of the knowledge was general and vague: alcoholic, unwilling mother, died from a drunken fall. The only time she had ever questioned Olivia's drinking was before any of that came to light, when they still saw each other only as counselor and detective, rather than friends. It felt like a low blow then, just as it did now. "Don't you have to work tomorrow?"

Olivia was indeed scheduled to work bright and early the next morning, but for the first time since making captain, she was considering taking a sick day. It wouldn't be that far from the truth; she had never been so heartsick in all her life. "Great, you sound just like my fiancée," she said in a flat tone. "Next you'll be telling me what I can and can't wear."

"What?" Alex put her hands down hard on either side of the couch cushion, bracing her arms like she was on a carnival ride that had taken a sudden dip. She turned and sat forward in Olivia's direction. "Amanda tries to control how you dress?"

"No, that's not—" Olivia pressed her lips tightly together, shaking her head far longer than necessary. She had not meant to say that out loud, at least not in those exact words. The argument about wearing the earrings was much more complicated than that, and she couldn't tell Alex about it since her gift had been the cause. And if Olivia mentioned the turtleneck, then she had to explain why Amanda wanted her to wear it—and why she'd complied. Neither of those options appealed to her at the moment. "It was just an example, Alex. Do you want the drink, or not?"

Eyes narrowed behind the rectangular lenses of her glasses, Alex studied Olivia in silence for several moments, almost as if she could discern the heat creeping up Olivia's neck from the sweater and the afterburn of Amanda's stinging kisses. "Fine," she said in a clipped tone that sounded more like the old Alex, who mouthed off to judges in their own courtrooms and sometimes thought she ran the NYPD right along with the rest of the brass. The new Alex considered herself above the law too, though in a very different way. "I will have one glass. You might think about making that your limit as well."

"Yeah. I might." Olivia caught the rim of the wine glass with her middle finger as she passed the end table on her way to the kitchen. She rinsed the bowl out thoroughly there, but the telltale rings were dried to the crystal, leaving behind a crusty red residue that reminded her of blood-stained sheets, the stubborn brown outline surviving the spin cycle. She turned the glass upside down on the top rack of the dishwasher, beside her first glass of the evening, and brought down two more clean ones from the cupboard.

Pouring a generous serving each from the sleek bottle of Nero d'Avola—she liked the black frosted glass and the embossed label, with its dark red calligraphy she couldn't read without her eyeglasses, almost as much as she liked the wine itself—she cradled both goblets in one hand, the stems wedged between her fingers. In her other hand, she carried the wine bottle. Just in case Alex changed her mind about a refill, it would save Olivia the trouble of traipsing back and forth from room to room.

"Frannie Mae Rollins," Olivia groaned, returning to the living room to find the pit bull rolling on her back in the warmth Alex had left on the couch. The former attorney was standing in front of the lit Christmas tree, examining each of the ornaments that populated its branches. When her mother died, Olivia had inherited a small box of tattered and mismatched ornaments from her childhood, most of them secondhand from Serena's own girlhood home.

As a kid, Olivia had tried to get a sense of what her grandparents must have been like by studying those ornaments—the wooden toy soldiers and rocking horses, the faded aluminum bells and indented baubles in shiny candy colors. She'd concluded they were a sweet old couple: Grandpa was a veteran of some war or another, liked model trains, and would have carved tiny figurines out of soaps and wood for his granddaughter, had he ever met her; Grandma looked like Aunt Bee from _The Andy Griffith Show_ , spent her days baking and tending garden, and always had a pocketful of treats for her little angel Olivia.

Sometimes, if Olivia wasn't careful, she still missed the fictional pair. Less so, now that she had a real family. Or did have a while ago, at least.

Combined with the decorations Amanda had pilfered from her mother's basement—mostly characters from 1980's Disney cartoons, of which there seemed to be an abundance of mice dressed like humans—under the guise of a visit home from college one winter break, and the trinkets collected so far by each of their children, the tree was filled out nicely.

"She's fine," Alex said, glancing over her shoulder to laugh at Frannie, who wasn't a bit remorseful for her unladylike wallowing, then back at the pink unicorn that commemorated Matilda's first Christmas in the Benson household and since birth. She tapped the mythical creature with a slender finger, watching it bob erratically on its rocker feet.

"She's a hooligan." Olivia set the wine bottle down on the end table, gave Frannie's head an affectionate scratch before leading her off the couch by the collar, then joined Alex in front of the tree, offering the fuller glass. "But sweet."

Alex took one look at the serving size and rolled her eyes, but she accepted it nonetheless, expertly scooping up the bowl without uncrossing her arms. She gestured with the glass at the triangle of photos that were balanced on the front branches: Noah in his first recital costume, Jesse with crooked pigtails on school picture day, and ultra photogenic Matilda looking like a Ralph Lauren child model in a studio portrait from shortly after her second birthday.

"Speaking of sweet. Your kids are darling," she said, twirling the wine a few times before finally sampling it. She couldn't hide the spark of delight in her eyes when the bold flavor reached her palate, lips folding around the dark liquid as if she had a secret. "I can't get over this littlest one. She could be in the next _Annie_ revival."

"Bite your tongue," Olivia said around the brim of her glass, and took a delicate sip. More to savor the tartness, the rush of ripe and succulent berries, than out of moderation. "One performer in the family is all I can handle."

"Noah's taking the diva ballerina thing too seriously?"

"I was talking about Jesse. The world's a stage to that child." Olivia smiled at the picture of the mischievously grinning little girl and her whopper-jawed pigtails. She looked so much like Amanda, it was uncanny. If Olivia allowed herself, she could easily become envious of that undeniable connection, which she would never share with any of her children; so, she didn't allow it. "Amanda says she has middle child syndrome, but I think Miss Jesse is just very much her own person. Although, she's definitely got her mama's—"

 _Spunk_. Olivia thought it, but the word stuck in her throat and she swallowed thickly. She tried washing it down with a healthy gulp of wine, and when that didn't work either, she abandoned the conclusion and wandered over to sit on the couch. Gazing into the deep red contents of her glass, she waited for Alex to reclaim a seat, vaguely noting from her peripheral vision the slender form settling much closer beside her on the couch cushion this time. For a long while, she didn't look up, just went on sipping her drink at opposite intervals with Alex, until she noticed the pattern and simply held the base of the glass in her palm, swishing the contents.

In the end, it was Alex who rescued them from the uncomfortable silence that might otherwise have stretched on forever—or at least another five to ten minutes. "What happened with you two, Liv?" she asked softly, tilting her head forward to try and get a look at Olivia's face.

From the corner of Olivia's eye, that long blonde hair hanging down, its owner concerned and sympathetic, so distinctly resembled Amanda, her breath caught. She pushed it out with a low, shaky _whoosh_ and made several false starts before she could respond without her voice breaking. "She's just so angry," she said in a wavering tone, forcing herself to meet Alex's gaze. The tears were less likely to come if she was looking someone in the eye. That was the theory, anyway. "And I don't know how to help her, because she won't talk to me about it. All she wants to do is . . . "

At the last second, Olivia realized she was about to share more than she should, and instead gestured lamely to herself. She let the same hand drop into her lap, heavy as a brick. All at once, she was so tired and weary, she longed to curl up on the couch and fall asleep. "All she'll ever talk about are my problems. Sometimes I think that if I were okay, she wouldn't want me anymore."

No, that wasn't true. It had to be the wine talking. She knew Amanda had a vested interest in her well-being, and the detective would do just about anything to keep her happy. Any fears she had otherwise were her own insecurities coming to light—she was deeply afraid her traumas were too many, too significant; that she would never recover and learn to be truly happy; that her needs were so all-encompassing, Amanda's got pushed aside; that one day it would all be too much, and Amanda would walk away.

It hit Olivia then, with such stark, swift clarity, she almost spilled the Nero d'Avola into her lap. She had become her mother, right down to the drink in her hand, the slur in her speech, the alcohol on her breath, and the irresistible desire for _just one more_. She was everything she'd sworn never to be, and Amanda was right to leave her. To hate her.

**. . .**


	25. Chapter 24: Fruit of the Poisonous Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N from ff.net: Happy Sunday, y'all. I hope everyone's had a good weekend. Unfortunately, Rolivia hasn't. I'm sorry, I know it's hard seeing them like this, and it makes me sad too (seriously, like, every sad song I listen to right now reminds me of them. I have an entire playlist for chapters 21 & 22 just by themselves, lol), but that was a big damn argument, so... it's gonna take some time. I wanted to respond to the comment about why Liv called Alex, too: A) She's drunk and not thinking clearly. B) She's emotionally wrecked and severely triggered, and Amanda—the person she _wants_ to turn to—is gone. For good, as far as Liv knows. Amanda isn't even answering her calls. So, she's just been left alone (like she was constantly by her mother) and shut out completely by the person she loves (the way Elliot left her). C) She turns to the worst possible solution when she's left with nothing else (e.g. getting engaged to her statutory rapist to escape her mother. Also, Brian Cassidy). She has no real self-preservation skills when it comes to relationships, arguments, etc. Serena took that away from her. D) And I don't think this one is a conscious decision on Olivia's part at all, so blame my warped little brain, but it's kind of payback. Amanda just hurt her deeply, and Alex is the best way to retaliate. Phew, okay, sorry. Hope that clears things up. Oh, and I'm not sure it's needed but just to be on the safe side **tw** : purging.

## CHAPTER 24: Fruit of the Poisonous Tree

**. . .**

"Whoa, Liv, take it easy," Alex said, when Olivia drained the rest of her wine in a single swig. The younger woman held her half-empty glass aside and rescued the other before it could be filled again. "You're going to make yourself sick."

"I'm already sick, Al." Olivia smiled wanly at the nickname that her lips had produced of their own volition. Right then, she didn't really care what Alex called her in return—Ollie, Liv, Livvy, lousy drunk, stupid little bitch, monster. Any of them would do. "I was born that way."

Swiveling at the waist, Alex placed the crystal on the end table without turning the rest of her body away from Olivia. The twisting pulled at the loose neck of her blouse, offering a glimpse at the snowy white plains of her upper chest. Years ago Olivia had been fascinated by the delicate bone structure there, the faint ripples beneath the flesh that were often visible in the scoop neck tops Alex once favored. It still looked the same—just this side of frail—and Olivia caught herself staring, wondering at her friend's slight build that somehow reminded her of bone china. A teacup poised at prim lips, a saucer cradled by an elegant hand.

She averted her eyes quickly, wishing she hadn't guzzled the wine so fast, because now there was nothing in her lap to look at but her own two hands. The longer she studied them, the more disproportionate they seemed, until they looked like a stranger's hands. Their only identifiable feature was the engagement ring, and that just reminded her of Amanda. She drew her knees up onto the couch, ankles crossed behind her, and tucked both hands between her thighs.

Taking the new posture as an invite, Alex turned to the side as well, facing Olivia head on, one leg hooked over a purple suede pump. Her knee pressed against Olivia's, a long and slender arm draping across the back of the couch, as graceful as the neck of a swan. "There is nothing wrong with you, Liv," she said rather fiercely, her tone soft but heated. "And if she's telling you there is, then she needs her head examined. You're an amazing woman, and you deserve someone who sees that and makes sure you do too."

"She does." Olivia felt her defenses going up, even though the other woman was on her side. She didn't want to be told how amazing she was, or how good. Neither of those things were true, and she hated being lied to. Alex's eagerness to blame Amanda for all their troubles bothered Olivia as well. She was just as much to blame herself, if not more so. She'd pushed Amanda to the edge—and then over—with her constant need. "Amanda is not the problem here. She's a better person than you give her credit for. Everything that's happened this past year . . . hell, the past six or seven years, she's been there for me through all of it. No one else was. No one has ever loved me like she does."

Alex sighed heavily and jabbed at the back of the couch with her fingertip, impressing her point. "But that doesn't give her license to mistreat you when she's had a bad day. Or to refuse to talk about why she's angry, then turn right around and take it out on you. That's emotionally abusive—"

"She got shot four weeks ago, Alex." Olivia finally looked back to her friend, prying a hand from the inside of her thighs and flinging it outward, palm turned up in an exasperated gesture. "She could have died. And like an idiot, I called her mother, who ended up staying with us until Christmas. That woman is awful. Amanda warned me, but I didn't listen. By the time she left, I wanted to hit someone too."

"Wait," Alex said, signaling Olivia to halt, go back, elaborate. "Are you telling me Amanda hit you? Because if that's the case, I'm not leaving you here with her."

Now it was Olivia's turn to sigh, and she did so with every bit of breath she could muster, dropping her head back the way Amanda did when particularly frustrated. She righted abruptly, a bout of dizziness overtaking her at that angle. It felt like all the wine she had consumed was sloshing around inside her skull. "Oh my God, stop. I've told you my fiancée does not abuse me. It was her mother who slapped me across the face. And Amanda kicked her out for it, right after."

"Why the hell did her mother slap you?" Alex demanded, mystified. She looked as if she had stumbled upon an episode of _The Jerry Springer Show_ and couldn't quite determine who had wronged whom.

For a moment, it was almost amusing. But the memory of that slap was still too raw for Olivia to find humor in it. She had trouble downplaying it like she used to with her own mother. That had been a survival tactic, a way to absolve Serena, who had already suffered enough by bringing Olivia into the world. She couldn't find a satisfactory excuse for Beth Anne's behavior. It hurt Amanda and the children, and that was unacceptable.

"Because she hates me and thinks I'm using Amanda for . . . I dunno, sex. My ego. As a fucking power trip. Or maybe just because the woman's a homophobic cunt." Olivia flitted her hand about sarcastically while she listed the reasons, but she lost a bit of steam after the last one. Even with all the alcohol churning in her stomach and her bloodstream, she couldn't in good conscience use the term "cunt" to describe another woman. Not after she had been reduced to such vulgar epithets herself, too many times to count.

"She thinks Amanda and Jesse would be better off with some nice, stable _man_ providing for them," Olivia added dully, eyes lighting on the bottle of Nero d'Avola for the briefest moment. "And hell, she's probably right . . . "

Alex clucked her tongue, her hand shifting from the back of the couch to Olivia's shoulder. "That is preposterous. There is literally no one more qualified to be a spouse and mother than you. You're the most maternal person I've ever met. You always made me feel safe and cared for."

 _And look how easy it was for you to walk away_ , Olivia thought, but still had enough wits about her not to repeat it out loud. Alex was being supportive; it wouldn't be fair to throw the past in her face like that, especially when she'd had no control over leaving—at least not the first time.

"Well, you were easy," said Olivia, a wan smile touching her lips again. She reached up to lay a hand on top of the one Alex was resting on her shoulder. "You didn't give me nearly as much guff as Amanda does. Or push me away nearly as hard. And before you ask, I mean that figuratively. Not literal pushing."

There had been some of the literal kind tonight too, but Olivia had given as good as she got. Alex didn't need to know about it, though. She wouldn't understand and it would only fuel her belief that Amanda was abusive in some way or another. Olivia couldn't stand the thought of listening to her old friend defame her fiancée once again, not right now. There was far too much of that going around lately, and it wouldn't be right with Amanda not even being present to defend herself. Besides that, Olivia had had her fill of fighting for the evening.

"Oh sure, because all those times I took out my frustration over a case on you and Stabler were such a walk in the park." Alex gave a light sniff of laughter, her gaze drifting askance, landing on the back of Olivia's hand with the weightlessness of a feather on the breeze. "Or did you mean when I almost got assassinated right in front of you and let you believe I'd died in your arms? At least for a little while."

Olivia feigned thinking it over, head tilted slightly to one side, eyes turned heavenward. "Well, when you put it like that, you were kind of a pain in my ass. Guess I'm just blinded by nostalgia . . . and age-related memory loss."

And booze. Don't forget the booze.

That got an outright laugh from Alex, who nudged Olivia's shoulder playfully, rocking her back a little in her seat. "Hey, lady, you're not that much older than I am. Watch it."

They shared genuine smiles then, the gloom momentarily lifting from Olivia's troubled mind. She had always enjoyed making Alex laugh, seeing the lawyer's somewhat austere and upper-crust exterior melt away to reveal the giddy, giggling blonde that resided underneath. Alex could be quite a cut-up once you got her going—or at least she used to be, before time and life-altering trauma took their toll. Her mood changed abruptly now, the twinkle in her eye extinguished at a blink, sadness and shadow replacing the warm glow of amusement.

"I don't know if I ever told you, and I know it's much too late now, but I am sorry I put you through that," Alex said, a small hitch in her voice. Her expression was so solemn behind the dark frames, it looked as if she were informing Olivia she only had months to live, a hand on her shoulder for moral support. "And I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you after William Lewis. And the Mangler. Jesus, I haven't been a very good friend to you, have I?"

Hearing the pseudonyms of her attackers in quick succession felt like a one-two punch to the gut, but if there was anything Olivia knew how to do well, it was take a hit and keep going. She patted Alex's hand a few times, then gave the slender wrist a reassuring squeeze. "You've got your own life, Alex. I don't expect you to drop everything and come running whenever I have a crisis. Those things are behind me, anyway. You're here now, and that's what matters."

It was complete bullcrap, and Alex probably knew it too. Each time Olivia thought she had made progress at leaving Lewis in the past, leaving him dead in the ground of potter's field where his unclaimed body was buried, something—or more often, someone—brought him screaming back to vivid, blood-red life in her memory and her subconscious. Calvin and Amelia were the worst of it, and difficult to recover from in their own right. Orion, while frightening, hadn't been nearly as insidious, but opened up all the old wounds that were.

And that wasn't even counting the day to day triggers Olivia grappled with: loud, unexpected sounds; a stranger with a smile like his; the whiff of cigarette smoke inside a cab; her fiancée groping her breasts and unbuckling her belt from behind. There wasn't a day that went by without at least a passing thought of Lewis, it seemed.

Yeah, she was totally over it.

"Well, then you're a hell of a lot stronger than I am," Alex said with thinly veiled admiration. She slipped off her glasses, folding them into her lap with the one hand, the opposite arm draped half along the back of the couch, half around Olivia's shoulder. "Sometimes I still duck for cover when a car backfires. And I can't seem to break the habit of not telling people my real name. Some guy hit on me at the airport bar, and I told him my name was Emily. He called me 'Em' the entire flight here."

"Oh God." Olivia wrinkled her nose in disgust. If she had a nickel for every time a complete stranger thought he had permission to call her "Liv," or the shortened version of whatever fake name she had given him, she would be a wealthy woman. "But that's not a sign of weakness, you know. It's actually smart not giving your real name. The car thing gets me too, though. Are you seeing a therapist?"

Alex ducked her head just enough that the twitch in her lips was almost indiscernible, but Olivia caught the faintest glimpse and immediately felt foolish. Amanda laughed off the idea of therapy too. "I'm sorry, that's none of my business," said Olivia, shaking her head and untucking her legs as if she meant to stand. "I shouldn't have asked. I know people think therapy is just paying someone to listen to your problems, but it's been helpful to me, that's all I—"

"Liv, it's okay."

The hand in Alex's lap switched to Olivia's knee, gently discouraging her from moving away. They were very close now, the body heat Alex emanated making the warmth inside Olivia's turtleneck unbearable. She tugged uncomfortably at the collar, tempted to flap it until she cooled off. Why did she drink so much damn wine?

"You didn't offend me," Alex said, and tapped Olivia's shoulder to gain her full attention. "I don't feel that way about therapy. I've gone off and on since I was a teenager, and it's helped me too. I was just reacting to you being . . . you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Olivia asked sharply. Or what sounded sharp in her head, but came out muffled and dull, like throwing a punch at a pillow. Not only was she unbearably hot, she was also dead tired and her lips felt thick and rubbery.

"Nothing bad. I meant that it's you who's in distress here, yet you're trying to make me feel better." Alex offered a fond smile and a squeeze on the knee as an apology. "Same old Liv. You're the one constant in my life, you know. I can always count on you to be there, helping me find my way back from—"

From what, Olivia never got to hear, because Alex stopped short at the sight of the tears streaming down her cheeks. It had been the comment about being a constant in Alex's life that did it. For Olivia, that person was Amanda Rollins. The one who brought her back from all those dark places that she feared would swallow her up sooner or later. Her beautiful lighthouse in the storm. And now the storm itself.

"Oh, Liv. Oh, honey." Alex brought her hands to either side of Olivia's head, cupping them around the heavy curtain of hair that covered both ears. She looked thoroughly dismayed to find her old friend—the so-called strong one—openly weeping, and she drew Olivia forward, pressing a desperate kiss to her forehead. "Don't cry. I didn't mean to upset you. Shh, don't cry."

But the damn had broken, and Olivia only cried harder as Alex went on soothing her, first with words and then with more kisses, these to her closed eyelids. She hated how freely the tears fell now. At a young age, she'd discovered her talent for turning on the waterworks at the slightest provocation, but it seldom got her anywhere with Serena—except in trouble. Eventually she became just as practiced at turning her emotions off entirely.

It was that control which had earned her some plum undercover gigs as a rookie detective, the higher-ups impressed by her ability to play the (sobbing) frightened young Russian immigrant or the (also sobbing) hooker with a heart of gold. Her colleagues had no idea what went into each performance, what she was drawing on to attain those delicious, dramatic tears they praised like theatre critics. And how delightful that she could switch them off just as readily! After all, no one liked a hysterical woman, especially if she was a cop.

Back then, it had been so easy. But somewhere along the way—probably around the time she went undercover in Sealview Correctional and learned that there were certain scenarios no amount of crying or screaming could stop—Olivia lost a little of that control. Then a little more and a little more after that . . .

Lately she was lucky if she could make it to an empty interrogation room or stairwell before breaking down in tears on the worst days of the job. And with Alex cradling her face and murmuring the same things Amanda said to her when she cried, Olivia couldn't hold back. It was almost like having Amanda there with her, so the kiss on the lips felt natural at first. She didn't return it, but her reflexes—slowed by wine and emotion—didn't kick in right away, either. By the time she realized what was happening, Alex's hands were sliding down to her neck, thumbs stroking along her jawline as the other woman tried to deepen the kiss.

"Hm-mm." Olivia's eyes shot open and she took hold of Alex's wrists, pulling back from her parted lips. She used to daydream about that moment, Alex's half-lidded, blue bonnet eyes and warm, sweet mouth, which spoke of poetry and truth and justice, inches from hers. But now it simply made her ache: for Amanda. "Alex, no. We can't. I- I can't. I'm engaged. It isn't right."

"Don't marry her," Alex whispered fervently, resting her forehead against Olivia's, as gently as another kiss. "I know how loyal you are, how determined to finish what you start. But she's not the only one who— she's just . . . she's not right for you, Liv. You deserve more."

Olivia lowered her hands into her lap, still holding Alex's wrists. She left their foreheads pressed together, though she had to look away, their close proximity giving her vertigo when she tried to study her friend's downcast eyes. "And who's going to give it to me? You? We had our chance and we let it pass us by. I love you, Alex—I always will—but I'm _in_ love with Amanda. I can't change that. I don't want to."

This time it was Alex who moved away, easing her hands from Olivia's grasp and into the safety of her own lap, turning her head aside and retreating slowly. She blinked several times, moisture clinging to doe-brown lashes, and swiped her fingertips discreetly across her flushed cheeks. "I knew you'd say that. I wouldn't have expected anything less from you," she said in a quavering voice Olivia had heard only a handful of times over the years. Ironically, Alex cried far less often than she did. "But I had to try. Otherwise I would always wonder . . . "

Olivia knew all about wondering. She had spent most of her forties wondering if she'd missed out on her chance to have a family, a fulfilling relationship, a home—and for what? The job, the man who would never love her in return? That wondering had resulted in a string of romances doomed from the start, the hasty decision to move in with Brian Cassidy of all people, and too many sleepless nights to count. She wanted to save Alex that heartache, if she could. Her friend at least deserved the closure she herself had never gotten from Elliot Stabler.

"It's okay," she said softly, wiping the tears from her cheeks and chin with the cuff of her sweater. A few had escaped beneath her turtleneck, and she rubbed at the damp collar in discomfort. It was like stepping on a wet spot while wearing warm, dry socks. "I understand. And maybe a few years ago, if you had said something . . . if— if _I_ had said something . . . "

It wasn't coming out right. She couldn't quite get her lips and tongue, numb and saturated with wine as they were, to convey what her fuzzy brain was thinking. She had no regrets about falling for Amanda or choosing her over Alex; she did, however, have some serious regrets about how much wine she'd consumed. "But we'll never know," she concluded lamely, and pinched hard at the bridge of her nose, trying to force herself wider awake. "I'm sorry, Alex. You should find someone who wants the same things you want. Someone who'll make you happier than I ever could."

"Oh sure, let me just go out there and find her right—" Alex paused in the middle of a broad gesture to the windows and the city that lay beyond; the wide world full of people she hadn't known for twenty-odd years and hadn't (according to Amanda) resurrected herself for. She squinted at Olivia, then put her glasses back on and squinted some more. "What is that?"

"Huh?"

"Your neck. What the hell is that?"

"Oh. Oh, it's—" Olivia's hands flew to her turtleneck, which was folded down too far on one side, either from her own fidgeting or from Alex's yearning touch a moment ago. She was terrible at coming up with lies on the spot, at least when she lied to someone she cared about, but it was too late anyway. Alex had already brushed Olivia's hands aside, crooked a finger into the collar, and pulled it down for a closer look.

"Jesus, Liv. What did she do to you? Those look like . . . " Alex broke out in blood red splotches on her own neck, chest, and face, but not from embarrassment. Even her scalp went pink beneath the pale roots as she fumed, turning the rest of her hair into a white flame. "Is she biting you or just outright choking you?"

"For Christ's sake," Olivia snarled, unhooking Alex's finger from her collar and tossing it away. It returned quickly, bringing reinforcements to encircle Olivia's wrists and peel back her sleeves one at a time, presumably checking for more bruises. Jerking free of the inspection, Olivia got to her feet as abruptly as she dared and took several steps back from the couch and the woman sitting on it. She wrapped her arms protectively around herself. "My mother does not choke me. Fuck! I mean Amanda. Amanda doesn't— she would _never_ do something like that. She's not a goddamn monster."

That slip, that stupid dead giveaway Olivia had spent half her teen years training to prevent, hadn't gone unnoticed. Alex's brow furrowed for a moment, but luckily she was too caught up in demonizing Amanda to pursue that line of questioning. "But she bites you? I've seen marks like that before, Liv. And so have you. That is not normal intimate partner contact, not to that extent. Are you afraid of her? I can—"

"I wanted her to do it," Olivia said evenly, and though she was just trying to shut Alex up, she discovered it to be true. She could have stopped Amanda from devouring her neck until it was raw and tender, just as she could have stopped any of the physical parts of their confrontation. But Amanda had been challenging her, expecting her to fall apart, cry, use the safeword, retreat into her traumatized little shell. Olivia wanted to prove her fiancée wrong. And hadn't she ever.

"You don't have to lie for her. Not to me. I know you, Olivia—there's no way you wanted that." Alex shook her blonde head adamantly, refusing to believe the alternative explanation.

Olivia bit down on her lower lip, dragging it roughly from between her teeth, practically drawing blood. She understood the need to bite into something; to bite so hard it hurt. "You don't know me at all, Alex. Not anymore. And we never slept together, so you couldn't possibly know what I like in bed. That's between me and Amanda, and it's none of your business. Get your own relationship and stay the hell out of mine."

The wounded expression on her friend's face hurt almost as much as the fingernails Olivia dug into her palms, the teeth she continued to scrape across her lip and the flesh underneath. She stood her ground though, hands balled into fists below her breasts. She was so intent on staring Alex down, in calming her heaving chest and rapid pulse, she nearly leapt out of her skin when a scruffy little voice behind her asked, "Mommy?"

She turned too fast, bumping into Jesse, who was half asleep and stumbling directly towards her. The child fell back a step, but remained unfazed by the roadblock; she often walked into walls and furniture during her nightly travels. In fact, Olivia had tripped over the girl half a dozen times before while she was sleepwalking, her tendency to creep up on her mothers undetected a bit unsettling—especially in dark hallways. But none of that mattered now. What mattered was that Olivia was drunk and she easily could have harmed one of her children.

"Oh my God," she gasped, and clapped a hand over her mouth. She really had become Serena, that staggering, slurring mess of a woman who endangered her child for the sake of just one more glass. Something crumbled inside of Olivia then, and she with it, dropping to her knees in front of Jesse and gathering the little girl into her arms. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Mommy didn't hurt you, did she?"

Blinking heavily, Jesse gazed around in confusion and squinted at Olivia as if she didn't recognize her. "Why are you hugging me, Mommy? I'm a'sposed to be asleep. Who's that lady? Why is she crying?"

"That's . . . that's Mommy's friend. She's not crying, love." Olivia didn't check to see if it was true or not. At least that way she could pretend she wasn't lying to her daughter. She didn't allow herself to consider why she hadn't used Alex's name. It just hadn't come up, that was all. Children didn't need adults' full names like cops and suspicious fiancées did.

"Yes, she is. So're you." Jesse rested her hands on Olivia's shoulders with a sober look, cutting her eyes—so like Amanda's—at Alex for a moment. "Did she make you cry, Mommy?"

Under different circumstances, Olivia would have laughed at Jesse's dead-on impression of Amanda, right down to the way she puffed out her tiny chest, ready to take on someone three or four times her size. But instead of laughter, she found only more tears. "No, baby, she didn't make me cry. We just watched a sad movie and got all choked up. Isn't that silly?"

"Yeah." Jesse gave Alex another skeptical glance, but when Olivia stood and scooped her up, she smiled drowsily and found a shoulder to rest her fair head upon. She didn't mind being cuddled while she was sleepy.

"I should go," Alex said. She was already on her feet by the time Olivia turned, and it was true—she had been crying again. Moisture glistened in the bottom rims of her glasses and she batted the remaining drops off her cheeks with one finger. She cast a hopeful look at Olivia, asking for something that couldn't be given.

"That's probably best," Olivia replied softly, stroking Jesse's back through the polyester of her pink _Trolls_ nightgown. She normally relied on Gigi for the comfort it brought her, not wanting to use her kids as a calming technique, but this time she would make an exception. Jesse was dozing, and Olivia was watching the one-time woman of her dreams walk out the door. Again. "I'm sorry, Al— I'm sorry."

"Me too." Alex took her coat from the closet and folded it over her arm. A sad smile crossed her lips when she took one last look back at Olivia, sleeping child in her arms, cheek nestled against soft blonde hair. "I'll see you around, Liv."

And then she was gone. Just like old times.

After locking the front door, Olivia drifted down the hall to her daughters' bedroom. She lingered there for at least twenty minutes, swaying Jesse side to side, patting and stroking her back in turn, whispering love and apologies, and watching Matilda sleep so peacefully it was almost a healing experience. When she was finally satisfied that her little girls were okay, she tucked Jesse back into her rainbow print sheets and forced herself to leave the room. There was work to be done.

At first, she couldn't stick them in far enough. Even with all that wine to soften the edges of memory, the idea of anything invading her mouth—whether or not it was two of her own fingers—made her stomach churn violently. That should have been helpful for this endeavor, but four attempts later, she was still only gagging and spitting clear saliva into the toilet. "Cunt," she whispered viciously, scrubbing away the sweat that trickled from her brow, the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes. She slapped the side of the porcelain bowl hard with an open palm, sat back on her heels, and tore off the turtleneck as if it had just ignited into flames.

Down to her bra and leggings, she bent over the toilet with renewed determination, clamping her hand onto the rim of the bowl. Her engagement ring uttered a tiny clink. "Come on," she growled, rocking her body like she was preparing to take a running leap from the rooftop of one building to the next. "Stupid fucking cunt. Come on."

She leapt, jamming her index and middle fingers deeply down the back of her throat ( _"I can go for hours with a ripe little cunt like you"_ ), pushing beyond the gag reflex, into soft, moist tissue that puckered around her fingertips like greedy, suckling lips ( _"Mmm, better than red velvet"_ ). All at once, her stomach heaved its contents upward so violently she barely had time to remove the fingers from her mouth. Still, she only expelled part of it the first time. The second time was involuntary and less powerful, like an orgasm following closely on the heels of its predecessor, but it emptied her belly completely, leaving only a light, pleasant nothingness in place of the heavy, shameful wine.

The dry heaves continued for several moments more, until Olivia finally sagged down beside the toilet, letting the porcelain cool her feverish skin. She had never made herself vomit before, and it took awhile for her sluggish brain to process what she'd done. She didn't feel guilty about it. Much of the alcohol had already been absorbed into her bloodstream, but she had at least rid herself of that last glass or two. She didn't care if it counteracted how drunk she already was or not—she wanted it out of her.

"Stupid," she muttered, eventually slogging to her feet and flushing the burgundy muck inside the toilet. Her mouth watered dangerously at the sight of it, and she almost threw the seat back for another round of useless retching, but the feeling passed after a few deep breaths and some more whispered curses. ("Cunt bitch.") She picked up her sweater and tidied the rest of the bathroom as best she could, refusing to check her appearance in the medicine cabinet mirror.

In the kitchen, hands trembling so badly she dropped the glass, shattering it in the sink, she poured out Alex's leftover wine, then dumped the entire bottle of Nero d'Avola in after it. Fifty bucks down the drain, and she didn't bat an eyelash. There was beer in the fridge, bourbon and a few other choice spirits (no vodka, no Jack Daniels) in the cupboard above it, but those could stay. They didn't call out to her like the red wine.

When she tossed the empty bottle into the wastebasket under the sink, it clanked against the Merlot she had drained earlier. Sounds of her childhood. She was tempted to walk the sack to the garbage chute in the outside hall, but she was shirtless—somewhere between here and the bathroom she must have dropped the sweater—and didn't want to leave her sleeping children alone, even for a minute. It could wait till morning. Everything could wait till morning.

Everything except Amanda. "Please pick up," Olivia murmured to her phone, repeating the words like a mantra with each ring. It kicked over to voicemail on the fourth, and she gave a silent, shuddering sob before ending the call.

"Hey, you've reached Amanda Rollins-Benson. I'm unavailable right now—"

Olivia threw her cell phone at the corner of her bedroom wall. It hit the baseboard molding, splitting in two its plastic case with the NO MORE logo on it, both pieces popping off in separate directions. Frannie went over to sniff the wreckage, but bounded back towards the bed like a wild, bucking deer when summoned; Gigi never left, her worried face resting on the edge of the mattress, huge brown eyes intent on her master. Both dogs jumped aboard immediately when given the go ahead, and Olivia tugged the covers up to her chin, shivering now in just her bra and leggings.

She huddled down beneath the comforter and waited for sleep to take her.

**. . .**


	26. Chapter 25: Stairway to Heaven

* * *

There's a lady who's sure  
All that glitters is gold  
And she's buying a stairway to Heaven  
When she gets there she knows  
If the stores are all closed  
With a word she can get what she came for

\- Led Zeppelin, "Stairway to Heaven"

* * *

## CHAPTER 25: Stairway to Heaven

. . .

The name of the place was Pawn Solo, which Amanda supposed had been meant as a near rhyme, though not a very good one. Without the Millennium Falcon hovering above the logo, she wouldn't have caught the reference at all. She was tempted to ask what happened when a customer insisted that "Han" should rhyme with "pan," but so far no one had answered the jingling bell above the door or the call bell she'd rung twice. They probably wouldn't find her snarky _Star Wars_ question humorous anyway; she didn't. Although, to be fair, she was in no mood to laugh.

"Come the fuck on," she grumbled under her breath, and smacked the bell again. She had chosen this shop because the outside signage, as cheesy and unclever as it was, looked professionally done. All the bulbs in the lighted sign above the entrance still worked and hadn't melted the plastic, making it seem like a reputable establishment. Life-size cartoon versions of Han and Chewie were painted on the storefront window, adding to the charm. Plus, it was one of the few open pawn shops she'd come across since leaving the apartment.

She hadn't set out planning to pawn the earrings. She didn't even remember grabbing them off the bed before she left, but they were there in the pocket of her jeans when she crammed her freezing hands into the cloth inserts, desperate for warmth. Her wallet was in her coat pocket, and she could have paid for a cab, but somehow that felt like conceding. To whom or what, she didn't know. (To her mother, who would compare her stubbornness with Dean Rollins'; to Olivia, who would scold her for not at least wearing a hat and gloves—why hadn't she at least worn a hat and gloves?—and to the bitter late December cold, of which she was most defiant of all.)

After being cooped up in the apartment for weeks, walking seemed like a luxury, even if hurt, even if she could barely feel her fingers and toes anymore. So she walked, and as she walked, she replayed her argument with Olivia—every awful, ugly moment, but especially the things she had said and done. It was even worse in her head. In her head, she was no better than her father or any of the men (and women) who had hurt Olivia over the years. When the phone began to vibrate in her back pocket, she couldn't answer it for fear her fiancée would be on the other end, telling her not to come home.

Then she discovered the earrings. And no amount of speed walking the Manhattan pavement, teeth chattering behind her upturned collar, could block out the echo of Olivia's dispassionate words:

" _They're yours now. Return them, pawn them, throw them off the fucking Brooklyn Bridge, for all I care. I don't ever want to see them again."_

Returning the jewelry wasn't an option because not only did Amanda have no idea where it had been purchased, she also didn't have a receipt. No way in hell would she call up Alex to inquire about either of those things.

Thanks to a mountain of past gambling debts, she was quite familiar with pawning. "You still robbin' Peter to pay Paul, Mandy girl?" her daddy used to ask, when they were on speaking terms. He should know: he'd been the one who taught her how to do it.

The first thing she had ever witnessed being pawned was her mother's antebellum brooch, an heirloom passed down by her great great (great?) grandmother. It should have gone to Amanda, and eventually Jesse, but instead it went to Bobby McGee—yes, his real name—the scrap collector/pawnbroker who had a yard full of rusted out jalopies, mattress springs, and mangled rebar behind his shop. To eight-year-old Amanda, the yard had looked like a playland, albeit a shabby one. But Dean told her to stay put, insisting she would step on a nail and get tetanus, which he claimed made your jaw lock shut until your teeth shattered, choking you to death. For a long time, Amanda assumed he had been keeping her safe by never letting her play outside McGee's Metals & More; then she realized he'd simply wanted an accomplice so the blame for pawning Beth Anne's possessions didn't fall entirely on him.

Years later she went back to see if the brooch was still there, but McGee's was boarded up, the corroded insides of an upright piano, recognizable by the dozen or so scattered strips of wood with black and white tips, all that remained in the yard. Amanda had squeezed between the padlocked gates to kick a few stones around and pluck at the piano strings, just for the hell of it. She didn't step on any nails.

Stereo equipment, DVD and Blu-ray players, a Les Paul electric guitar (the nicest thing her father had ever given her and probably hot as Hades), a brand new Xbox, furniture, a collectible Bowie knife left behind by an ex-boyfriend—those were just a few of the items she had put into hock to keep the loan sharks at bay. Most of it she never saw again. But it had been hers to lose, no one else's.

The earrings were different. No matter what Olivia said, they still belonged to her. Amanda hated herself for even considering pawning them; had walked blocks out of her way, hoping to dissuade herself, hoping that the suggestion would stop playing over and over in her head, almost as if Olivia were encouraging her to give in . . . .

If she _did_ give in, she probably wouldn't get enough money to buy the new engagement rings, but it might at least cover the watch repair. The Breitling was what put her in the hole to begin with; if she got out from under that, she could focus on saving for the wedding and the new rings. And it wasn't as though she would be selling the earrings permanently. More than likely they would remain in the glass case along the wall, with all the other jewelry displayed on black velvet—to emulate a twinkling night sky—until she returned to pay off the loan. She might even be able to get them back in time for the wedding. She didn't want Olivia to wear them, but she'd grin and bear it, if it meant her fiancée would still have her.

That had been the deciding factor, the realization that she could return for the earrings later. With any luck, Olivia wouldn't even notice they were temporarily missing—it wasn't like she took them out of the drawer and admired them every day (Amanda hoped). And once the burden of debt lifted from Amanda's shoulders, things could get back to normal. She could set about winning Olivia's trust again.

The thought was too exciting to pass up, and she had entered the pawn shop, eager to start the transaction. But the longer she had to stand around ringing the damn bell, the more she began to lose faith in her plan. Was it just the old Amanda talking, with all the excuses and addictions clouding her judgment, or had she really found a logical solution to her problem?

"Come. The. Fuck. On," she repeated, punctuating each word with a swat to the bell. It was painted green, large Yoda ears protruding from either side of the dome.

"Be right with you," a voice called from the curtained back room. A cardboard cutout of Darth Vader stood beside the doorway, hand extended in the infamous Force choke, except this particular Sith Lord held a sign proclaiming: _Do not underestimate the power of surveillance cameras_.

"'Bout time." Amanda took the earrings from her jeans pocket, intending to place the box on the countertop, then changed her mind when she saw how dirty and scuffed the surface looked. Everything looked like that in the city, but she hated to think about those germs getting on Olivia's earrings. One coat pocket contained her wallet, the other held her cigarettes and keys, so she left the box out, turning it compulsively in her hands. She couldn't figure out why the counter was shaking until she noticed her twitching leg.

Finally, a minute or two later, a man emerged from behind the curtain. He was more Jabba the Hutt than Harrison Ford, lumbering up to the cash register like he expected her to just hand over whatever item she came bearing. Awfully presumptuous for a giant space slug. "What can I do you for?" he asked, disarmingly cheerful.

It took a moment to reconcile his corny greeting with the wart-tongued, slimy creature Amanda had been comparing him to in her head. She summoned a tenuous smile and brandished the box without offering it to him.

"Got a pair of earrings I wanna put down as collateral," she said, clearing her throat and flicking the bangs from her eyes. She felt about as antsy as she had at ten years old, trying to sit through an excruciatingly long church sermon. This guy probably already thought she was a tweaker, just here to score some drug money with jewelry stolen from a family member.

Oh wait, that was her sister.

"Excellent." Genial Jabba reached below the cash register, grunting as he withdrew a clipboard with several forms attached. He plucked an uncapped pen from a plastic R2-D2 cup Amanda vaguely recalled being sold at some fast food chain or another years ago, placed it on top of the clipboard, and slid both across the counter to her. "If you would be so kind as to fill these out for me. And while you do that, I can have a look at the earrings, yes?"

"Um, yeah. Sure." Reluctantly, Amanda pressed the box directly into his hand, hoping he wouldn't set it down on the countertop.

But of course he did. From beneath the cash register, he retrieved a loupe, placed it next to the box, and pulled over an adjustable lamp that extended from the wall like an according. It reminded Amanda of trips to the dentist, and she grimaced as she leaned over the paperwork. This was already proving painful.

While she tried to concentrate on writing her autobiography (there were five pages altogether, but the last three were mostly fine print she didn't read, followed by lines for date and signature), stealing fitful glances at the big sausage fingers poking around at Olivia's delicate jewelry, Judicial Jabba oohed and ahhed over the quality, his eyeball practically touching the magnifying glass. They were definitely real diamonds, by the sound of it. Fucking Cabot.

"You got a layaway plan here?" Amanda asked, glancing over nervously when he took out a calculator and started jabbing in numbers. He hesitated for a moment, looking up at her with a confused expression on his pockmarked face. "'Cause you could call it Princess Leia-way."

Jocund Jabba threw back his head and laughed at the joke, though he'd probably heard it a hundred times before. He slapped the counter in amusement, chortling and wiping his eyes and nose. "Just for that, I'll offer you an extra fifty," he said, and nudged at the earrings with the same finger he had used as a Kleenex.

"Great." Amanda offered a queasy smile and forced her eyes back to the page in front of her. She scribbled out whatever came to mind on the next few questions, but stopped cold when she reached the final section—secondary contact information. Olivia was always her secondary, her in case of emergency. She could use Daphne or Fin, but somehow that felt like a betrayal. This whole damn thing felt like one big betrayal.

Then her phone buzzed again in her back pocket.

"You know what," she said, pinching the completed forms free of the clipboard and returning the rest to Jabba, "I changed my mind. I can't, uh— I can't do this. Sorry I wasted your time. You can still use that Princess Leia-way thing, though. No charge."

"Oh." The man's cheery mood faltered as he watched her fold up the papers and stuff them inside her zipped coat, but he brightened again just as quickly. "You're sure you don't want to hear the price I had in mind? I think you'd find it highly satisfactory . . . "

He emphasized the "high" in "highly," if Amanda wasn't mistaken, and it required all her self-control to reach across the counter, snap the lid closed on the earrings, and cram the box into her pants pocket. She had made a lot of mistakes tonight, some she might never be able to fix, but if she stole from her fiancée like this—the way her father or her sister stole from their spouses and lovers—she would be past the point of no return. "Nah, I'm good. But thanks." She forced her feet into motion, backing away from the counter and tipping a nod to the man behind it. "Happy New Year."

"You too. And if you change your mind, just bring those papers back in with you. I'll get you all set up." Generous Jabba bid her farewell with a wave and one last sales pitch, calling it out over the jingle of bells above the door: "Come back before January thirty-first and interest rates are half off until May the fourth."

Amanda hadn't heard. She was digging the cell phone out of her pocket, hoping to answer the call before it ended. Olivia's pretty, smiling face greeted her from the screen, as she'd suspected, and her heart gave a frenzied kick at the thought of what awaited her on the other end of the line. But just as she was about to answer, the call dropped and the screen returned to her background photo—a candid shot of the kids and dogs, upon returning home from Daphne's Halloween party.

Frannie and Gigi were the only ones who had glanced up for the picture. The children were in varying states of undress: Noah had removed his phantom mask and consequently resembled a tiny, curly-headed count; tired of the bulging foam muscles, Jesse had traded her bodysuit for a nightgown, but refused to take off the do-rag, the sunglasses, and the Fu Manchu (she slept in all three and woke up crying about the fuzzy yellow caterpillar on her pillow the next morning); and Matilda still looked exactly like Orphan Annie, despite having removed all of her clothes to sit naked amid the piles of candy her siblings sorted on the carpet.

It was one of Amanda's favorite photos of her children, and one of her favorite memories with them and Olivia. That night had been the first time Amanda really felt like they were a family. And not just because of Daphne's little candy trick that resulted in Amanda basically proposing and offering to have Olivia's babies right then and there. Something had been different that evening on the way home, the kids chattering happily in the backseat, Olivia smiling over at her from the driver's side and laughing at all the ostrich feathers in her hair. They had a rhythm and an ease that Amanda didn't know could exist within a family, until that moment.

Her heart had been bursting with such love, she'd decided later the same night that she was going to propose for real. A few days later, she had the ring in hand; a few days more, it was on Olivia's finger. Amanda had felt like the richest woman in the world then.

But now.

There were three missed calls on her phone, and from Olivia all three. The same number of bullets it took to kill Calvin Arliss—and Orion, too. The same number of nails it took to hammer Jesus to the cross. According to some, bad things occurred in threes: deaths, natural disasters, crime waves, crises big and small. Personally, Amanda had always considered three to be a lucky number. She played it often when she gambled. When she _used to_ gamble, that is. One night she'd won $10,000 by betting solely on the modest little digit. She bought herself a truck with those earnings.

Just like that, Amanda knew what she needed to do. Everyone would tell her not to, including her sponsor (whom she hadn't spoken to in a couple months), her coworkers ("Don't do it, Rollins," Fin would advise sagely, "I ain't bailing your skinny ass out again"), and Olivia (the only one whose opinion mattered, and the one she wanted to do this for). That made her want to do it even more. She had just proven how much self-control she possessed by walking away from the pawnbroker empty-handed. If she could do that, she could draw the line elsewhere. She could stop. In the meantime, she might make enough money to solve most of her problems, and prove herself trustworthy. Maybe she wasn't even an addict anymore.

"Resorts World Casino," she told the cabbie when he arrived fifteen minutes later. There was no way she was hoofing it all the way to Queens, not even in perfect weather or in perfect health.

Resorts World wasn't her first choice of casinos, either—all of the tables were electronic and the constant throng of tourists didn't make for a very intimate setting—but it was the only option available on short notice. She hadn't kept tabs on underground gambling rings in the city since the one that introduced her to Declan Murphy and nearly got her fired, among other things.

She could probably contact Nate Davis, her ex-sponsor and the dirtbag she had knocked boots with a few times. His bar had been a popular hangout for the G.A. crowd and someone was bound to know of a nearby speakeasy. But just the thought of speaking to him made her skin crawl. She'd heard that when you slept with someone, you slept with all their previous sexual partners, and she sometimes felt the urge to apologize to Olivia for everyone she brought into their bed—especially Nate and his stupid, stupid hats.

The big, flashy casino with its overpriced games and noisy crowds would have to do. If she really hit a winning streak, her surroundings wouldn't matter anyway. Everything else faded into the background when she had a good hand or lucky dice. It was the same way she felt firing a gun. The rest of the world disappeared as she honed in on her target . . . steady . . . steady . . .

And bang! Bullseye.

Amanda stood outside the casino twenty minutes later, heart thumping so madly in her chest, it almost drowned out the voice inside her head warning her to turn back. Grandmama Brooks had told her about it—that still, small voice in which God spoke to the faithful, like Elijah when he passed through the wind, the earthquake, and the fire: "What are you doing here, Elijah?"

_What are you doing here, Amanda?_

She had no answer. Not for God or herself. Every excuse that got her here was suddenly nowhere to be found. Part of her hoped the phone would ring right then; that Olivia would be on the other end, begging her to come home, or even just yelling at her. Once again, she was waiting for Olivia to say stop. And once again, Olivia didn't.

"Come on," she pleaded, reaching back to make sure the cell phone was still in her pocket and hadn't fallen out in the cab. She took it out and squeezed it, gazing hopefully at the blank screen, whispering prayers to it ("Please stop me, please, please"), as to a faceless deity, like the God of Elijah and of Grandmama Brooks—or anyone else who would listen.

The phone stayed silent, and so did the heavens, and five minutes later Amanda was inside the casino. Ten minutes after that, she found her seat at the blackjack table. Within an hour, she had won her first card game in almost seven years. It was the easiest two hundred dollars she'd ever made.

She lost it all at the poker table, which should have been discouraging, but when she stepped out onto one of the designated balconies for smokers, she felt exhilarated by the cool rush of air, the bitter rush of tobacco, and the nearly orgasmic rush of possibility and risk. Of knowing what she should do, and doing the exact opposite.

That had been her favorite way to act out as a kid—learning what the rules were, just so she could break them. "You better never let me catch you with one of these, Mandy Jo," Beth Anne used to say, cigarette nestled into the corner of her mouth, smoke unfurling from the tip. Naturally, Amanda had pilfered two Virginia Slims from the pack in her mother's purse the first chance she got, and smoked both of them later that night, behind her daddy's shed. She immediately threw up, but continued stealing her mama's cigarettes from then on, until developing a taste for Camels sophomore year to impress a boy.

Such was the story of Amanda Rollins. The worse a thing was for her, the more she had to do it. And the more she liked it. For instance, she knew perfectly well that when she finished with this cigarette, she would go back inside, chase the first two bourbons with a third, and win (or lose) more money than she made in two weeks as a detective third grade. She could hardly wait, but just as she snuffed out the cigarette in a large cement urn in the corner, her cell phone pulsed—twice—against her backside. Text message.

She considered ignoring it, but the sight of a couple necking at the opposite end of the balcony changed her mind. Despite her gambling high, she still missed Olivia. For one absurd and fleeting moment, she wished her fiancée could join her for drinks and a few hands of poker. She wasn't even sure if Olivia knew how to play the game, she realized. How strange that they had never discussed it. The captain had one helluva poker face, that was certain; but she was not a skilled liar, or at least not a willing one. It would be interesting to see how well she played. Of course, that would all require telling Olivia where she was, and Amanda had no plans to do such a thing.

At some point in the past hour and a half, Olivia had called again—there was now a four next to her name in the Recents log—but Amanda either hadn't felt the phone vibrating or hadn't wanted to feel it. The text was from Daphne. _Mandy Lou!_ it began, _Are you alive? It's been 84 years. Miss my hot af friend & her righteous babe of a wife (seriously, just get married already sheesh, what are you guys waiting for, Christmas?) Call me, text me, LOVE ME._

Amanda could practically hear the message narrated in Daphne's lilting, and often deeply sardonic, voice. Her friend lived to tease and stir up mischief, but she wasn't totally off base about how long it had been since they spent time together. Besides Daphne's visit to the hospital, which Amanda forgot until Olivia mentioned it a day or two later, they hadn't seen each other in almost a month. Amanda had discouraged her friend from dropping by the apartment while her mother was there. Beth Anne always made Amanda's guests supremely uncomfortable, whether by showing too much interest (usually with the men) or none at all (i.e. the women). The more people Amanda spared from her mother's catty, capricious behavior, the better.

But that was over now. And Amanda was lonely.

She preferred gambling solo, but there were no hard and fast rules against answering texts. She composed a quick reply— _Hey Daph, how the hell are ya? Miss you too. We should_ —then couldn't decide how to close. _Talk sometime? Get together soon? Meet for coffee tomorrow while my wife is out with her ex-lover?_

In the end, she deleted the full text and stared at the blinking cursor for several moments, before switching over to her Recents. Most of them were Olivia, who called regularly from work to check in on her and the kids. Up until the past few days, it had warmed her heart to see the captain's name and photo pop up on the screen at lunch and break times—and whenever else Olivia took the notion. Since Christmas, it had begun to feel like a sign of mistrust. How tenuous was Olivia's faith in her, that she needed to call so frequently?

Her thumb wavered between "Liv" at the top of the screen and "Daph" a few spaces down. Tonight was all about the gamble, the better odds. She held her breath and made her choice.

**. . .**


	27. Chapter 26: Angel on My Shoulder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger last time. I didn't realize how flipped out everyone would be about who Amanda chose... I guess because I already knew? lol, Anyway, here's the answer. Also, there's a little cameo of sorts for a not-so-beloved character in this chapter. I couldn't resist. Have a good weekend.

## CHAPTER 26: Angel on My Shoulder

**. . .**

"Keep the change," Daphne said, handing the bills across the backseat to the man up front. He hadn't spoken a word since she got into the cab, which was usually how she liked it—there was nothing more obnoxious than a talkative driver—but the sporadic glances they had exchanged in the rearview mirror and the silence that spanned all the way from her apartment to Queens were making her anxious.

She didn't travel alone at night anymore. Not since the Catskills. Not since Meredith. Putting herself in a dark car with a strange man filled her with terror, now that she knew how it felt to be run down by such a thing. (She couldn't actually recall the impact from the Mercedes that tossed her through the air like a deer on the highway, breaking both of her legs, but she remembered the end results vividly. She was still living with them every time she took a step.)

Per Amanda and Olivia's advice, she had given up Lyft and Uber in favor of good old Yellow Cab. The policewomen claimed it was safer, and Daphne wasn't about to argue. She listened to all of their tips on personal safety and self-defense, as a matter of fact. She couldn't bring herself to carry a handgun—it hadn't saved Meredith—but she had allowed Amanda to gift her with a stun gun on her birthday. Honestly, the thing was kind of cute: it looked like a handheld tape recorder in bright cherry red, with a built-in flashlight and speaker on one side that emitted a piercing alarm. After sounding the alarm and scaring the hell out of everyone at the birthday party, Amanda had joked that the stun gun might be tiny but it packed a big punch, just like Daphne.

She had it in her purse, which she'd kept securely in her lap for the entire cab ride. If not for Amanda's phone call, she wouldn't have broken so many of her own rules tonight, but it had been obvious just by the sound of her friend's voice that something was wrong.

For one thing, Amanda had no business being out at some casino while she was recovering from a gunshot wound. For another, where the hell was Olivia? Whenever she and Amanda weren't at work, they were damn near inseparable—Daphne should know, perpetual third wheel that she was. She'd considered calling Olivia to ask if everything was okay, but truth be told, in spite of her shameless flirting, she was still a little intimidated by the extremely powerful, extremely sexy older woman. Plus, she couldn't rat on Amanda, who had been her friend first.

Securing the cane at her side, Daphne swung the car door shut, relieved when the taxi took off before she even cleared the curb. She left the cane at home as much as possible, but for outings like this, when she didn't know the terrain or how far she would be required to walk, she kept it handy. "Or footy," she said out loud, for her own amusement. Lame joke or not, it made her laugh. Laughter kept her sane.

She got another chuckle when the twenty-something girl at the casino entrance took one look at her cane, another at her incongruously young appearance (her makeup and clothing were the only reasons she didn't get mistaken for a child more often), and visibly panicked, awkwardly asking to see some I.D. Unfazed, Daphne handed over her license, and when the girl was satisfied she was over twenty-one, she made her way into the main lobby.

Beyond, she heard the muted cacophony of hundreds of electronic beeps, whistles, and zings, but nothing could have prepared her for the noisy explosion when she opened the glass double doors. The casino was a sprawling landscape of flashing lights ( _ching-ching!_ ), hundreds of occupied diamond-backed chairs ( _brrrippp!_ ), and a carpet as hideously bright and busy as the rest of the room ( _plink plink plink!_ ).

Just as Daphne was wondering how she would ever find Amanda in this mess—of which there were three floors—and started to search for the cell phone in her purse, she heard her name ring out above all the other noise: "Daphne! Hey, Daph, over here."

Amanda had quite the bellow, and several nearby heads turned to look at the same time, cueing Daphne in on which direction the sound had come from. In the old days, she would have moseyed over to her friend at the craps table, not concerned in the least about being watched. But she suddenly felt as though every eye in the place was on her, and she hastened forward as quickly as the cane and her stiff leg could carry her.

The first thing she noticed upon reaching the big octagon-shaped table, reminiscent of a flying saucer in an old back and white film, was that Amanda was drunk. She had sounded tipsy on the phone, and though Daphne had seen her worse off once or twice, she'd clearly tied a few on. The second thing Daphne noticed, besides the strange man that lingered behind the detective's chair, watching over her shoulder as she studied the monitor in front of her, was that Amanda reeked of cigarettes. Other than the joint they passed around at the lodge earlier that year, Daphne hadn't known her friend to be a smoker. She hadn't known her to be a gambler, either.

"Hey there . . . you," she said, not wanting to use Amanda's name in earshot of the weirdo behind her. That was another trick of the trade she'd picked up from her favorite cop duo, although she had already learned it years earlier in the bar scene—it was useful both for women who couldn't take a hint and straight guys trolling for lesbians to turn. They couldn't track you down if they didn't even know your name.

She sank into the seat beside Amanda and scooted it away from the playerless screen, which displayed a craps table identical to all the other monitors on each side of the octagon. In the center of the table, a large dome housing two oversized red dice sat like the little bubble on a Trouble playing board. And just as the thought occurred to Daphne, the dome began to shake, agitating the dice, while a computerized and annoyingly enthusiastic female voice cheered players to "push the button!" Someone finally heeded her advice, and a hiss-pop inside the dome catapulted the dice in the air, simulating a roll. When they tumbled back into place, Amanda whooped loudly.

"Did you win?" Daphne asked, leaning in to study the screen by which Amanda was so riveted. She had barely glanced up from it to greet Daphne, and she seemed almost unaware of the male presence at her back. (That was especially strange. Amanda was the most alert and observant person Daphne had ever met.)

"Pass line," Amanda replied, pushing a complicated sequence of buttons before grinning up at Daphne. "Shooter rolled a natural."

Whatever that meant. Daphne hadn't the slightest idea how to play craps or any other table game in a casino. When Amanda had invited her to "come gamble," she assumed they would be playing slot machines. Pull a lever, win some cash—or more than likely not. She had envisioned big plastic cups full of coins, and she and her friend screeching over a jackpot like a couple of old biddies. Instead, Amanda was so absorbed in the turf-green display she hunched over, Daphne might as well not have been there at all. She might as well have been the creep standing behind Amanda's chair.

"Excuse me, who are you?" she asked before she could stop herself. She avoided confrontation at all cost, preferring to joke her way out of tense situations, or hoping to skate by unnoticed altogether (not that difficult at just shy of five-foot-two). But even though she had grown up primarily in smalltown Connecticut, she'd been a New Yorker long enough to adopt the attitude when necessary. And with men, it was always necessary.

She ignored his dopey explanation—"Name's Al," he said, thrusting out his hand—and mouthed a silent, incredulous "Al?" to Amanda. "Dude, who is this clown?" she asked out loud, hitching a thumb in his direction, but not taking her eyes off the detective.

"He bought me a drink," Amanda said with a distracted wave at the tumbler, empty save for some dwindling ice chips, in the cup holder beside her. She never looked away from the jiggling dice straight ahead. ("Push the button," goaded the announcer. " _Push_ the _button_.") Another cannonlike burst of air tossed the dice inside the dome, and she slapped her palms together, rubbing vigorously when both cubes turned up threes.

"See, I'm her good luck charm." Al gestured at the game station with his own glass—it was half full of a clear liquid, though whether it contained water or vodka was hard to tell—and rested his opposite hand on Amanda's shoulder. She was wearing a white button-up shirt, a black quilted coat draped across her lap, but he touched her like she was clad in something strapless and slinky. "Right, sweetie?"

Amanda shrugged his hand off and sat forward in her chair, elbows on the display that projected from the table, her forearms framing the screen. Below, the heels of her boots were hooked over the crossbar between chair legs, her knees jouncing so vigorously the coat began to slide from her lap. "I make my own luck. Get lost."

Finally, Amanda sounded a little more like herself. Daphne knew the detective had dated men in the past—hell, she had a kid that was conceived by traditional methods—but she sometimes forgot Amanda didn't identify as lesbian. Except for the lone date she'd extorted from the blonde, she had only ever seen Amanda show interest in Olivia.

It was disconcerting enough watching a man try to hit on her friend, but even more so to find out the woman had already accepted a drink from him. Daphne hadn't needed Amanda or Olivia to tell her not to take drinks from strangers when you were out by yourself.

"Now, is that any way to treat the guy who's been cheering you on for the past twenty minutes?" Al asked, pretending to be hurt by the brush off, though his smarmy smile stayed in place. He spoke to the back of Amanda's head, and when she didn't turn around, he looked to Daphne. "Aren't you going to introduce your little friend?"

"Her 'little friend' is a big fat lesbian," Daphne said in a monotone, and used the diamond-shaped handle of her cane to point out Amanda's engagement ring. "And she's married, so go find some straight, single trees to bark up, why don't you?"

Sleazebag that he was, Al only appeared more intrigued by the announcements. He eyed Daphne from top to bottom, cane included, over the brim of his glass as he took a sip. "I don't see her husband anywhere around," he said casually, then crunched an ice chip with his back teeth. He was definitely drinking vodka; no way would someone so repugnant drink plain ice water. "And you are way too pretty to be a lesbian."

Ah, that old chestnut. It was a personal favorite of Daphne's, right up there with "What a waste" and "You just haven't met the right man yet." She was contemplating using her cane like a pool stick and his scrotum like a pair of cue balls, but Amanda suddenly rounded on him in her chair, rising onto her knees to be at his eye level. "My _wife's_ at home with our kids and our guns," she spat, features twisted into the angriest sneer Daphne had ever seen from her. "So back the hell off, or I'll give her a call. Tell her to come on down and introduce herself to Doctor Al."

"All right, all right." Al put up his hand and his glass in surrender, backing away like he had encountered a furious bear. There were hints of amusement in his eyes and in the smug, twitching corners of his mouth. He was humoring Amanda not because he was intimidated, but because he found her outburst charming. "I'll be over at the bar if you change your mind," he said, giving them both a wink before sauntering off in that direction.

"What a douche nozzle." Daphne watched to make sure the man went where he claimed he was going, then turned her attention to Amanda, who was already settling back into her chair, preparing for the next round of craps. "Why don't rich, narcissistic female doctors ever accost me like that?"

"Pro'ly because you say things like 'go find some straight, single trees to bark up.'" Amanda snorted, busy making selections on the monitor again. She was always a little preoccupied, something which Daphne attributed to her desire for Olivia—at the start of their friendship, it had been painfully obvious to Daphne that the detective was in love with her boss; and even after the relationship began, Amanda was more attentive and devoted to Olivia than any girlfriend Daphne ever had—but this bordered on obsessive. "And because you wave your cane in people's faces."

"I panicked. You know I avoid interacting with men as much as possible." Daphne jabbed at Amanda's shoulder with the cane handle. "If you don't like it, you can get off my lawn, little missy."

That drew a genuine smile from Amanda, and she looked up from the game to truly acknowledge Daphne's presence for the first time since her arrival. She was kind of a mess, her clothes and hair disheveled, her eyes red and bleary from smoke and drink. Her skin, although generally very pale, was now a waxy shade that concerned Daphne. Even her lips were bloodless and barely distinguishable from the surrounding flesh. "How ya been, Daph? Have a good Christmas?"

"Yeah, it was nice. Hammie and I visited my parents in Connecticut. And yeah, I know, _Christmas in Connecticut_ , yuk yuk." Daphne cupped a hand to her armpit and flapped the opposite arm, suggestive of a corny comedian telling a real stinker. Above, the disembodied announcer was screaming for someone to _Push the button!_ , and Daphne raised her voice to be heard over the computer-woman's demands. "What about you? How'd you and Liv fare with your mom? Was it as awful as you thought it would be?"

Amanda's sneer momentarily returned, first at the question and then at the dice that had landed on a seven. "Worse," she said, and slumped back in her chair with a sigh. "I threw her out after she slapped Liv. We made the best of it for the kids, but it was hard after that."

"Whoa, wait." Daphne dropped her cane between her knees, letting the end thump against the floor, and made a rewinding gesture with both hands. "She slapped Olivia? Sweet, kind, gentle Olivia, who is also a five-foot-nine beautiful but scary goddess? _That_ Liv?"

"That's the one."

Daphne leaned forward, as if proximity determined understanding. She honestly could not imagine anyone having the guts or the audacity to raise a hand to the captain. Even after witnessing Orion's mistreatment of Olivia—at least the verbal parts—and realizing that more had probably happened with the Mangler than she or Amanda ever let on, Daphne still couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to hurt such an amazing woman. "Why the hell did she do that? Is Liv okay?"

"It's a long story, but basically she did it to spite me. That, and she's a jealous bitch." Amanda shrugged, like it was normal for one's mother to slap one's fiancée for petty reasons, and went on entering numbers on the game screen.

"But Liv's okay?" Daphne pressed, surprised that part had gone unanswered. Amanda was usually eager to talk about her fiancée, even if she was a bit guarded about certain aspects of their relationship. Their sex life, for example, was completely off the table, much to Daphne's bitter disappointment. But Olivia's well-being had always been a popular topic.

Amanda postponed her answer through several iterations of "push the button," her shoulders drooping at the resultant roll of the dice. "Physically, she's fine," she said in a clipped tone that was unfamiliar to Daphne. She knew Amanda had a slight temper, and she'd heard tales of the detective's ferocity on the job, but in two years of friendship, Daphne had never seen her truly angry. She had a feeling that was all about to change.

"Just physically?" Daphne draped her arm alongside the interface that captivated Amanda, leaning into view like a cat seeking attention from its owner while she was on the laptop. If Daphne turned over on her back and purred, the likeness would be uncanny. She tilted her head instead, trying to get Amanda to look up. Right then she missed her long hair, which would have flowed across the screen most distractingly, had she not cut it. "What about morally, ethically, and spiritually?"

"Huh?"

Daphne sighed. "From _The Wizard of Oz_ , Mandy Lou. What is with you? I totally just quoted a munchkin, with the voice and everything, and you're not even cracking wise about my height."

"Oh," said Amanda, shooing Daphne's hand away when it waved back and forth in front of the screen. She treated it with the halfhearted annoyance of someone swatting a gnat that hovered above their picnic spread. "What's with you and that movie? Were you an extra in the Munchkinland scene or something?"

Okay, coaxed or not, that sounded a little more like her Mandy Lou; but Daphne would not be deterred. Jokes aside, she really was concerned about her friend—both of them. She couldn't put her finger on why it bothered her so much to see them apart (she was all for independence in relationships), she just knew she didn't like it. "Seriously, though, is everything okay? Don't take this the wrong way, but you look a little . . . rough. Should you even be out this soon after getting shot? Why isn't Liv with you?"

"Jesus Criminy, you sound just like her," Amanda snapped, sitting back heavily in her chair, arms folded tight across her chest. She only lasted a second before sitting forward again and plunking away at the monitor, one-handed, the other hand holding her side. "In case y'all forgot, I'm a grown-ass woman, and I did things on my own long before y'all were ever around. I called you 'cause I thought you'd stay off my case, but if you're just gonna sit there and scold me—"

Struggling to sit up from the awkward position she'd been leaning in (cats made it look so easy, the little assholes), Daphne signaled for her friend to slow down. "Hey, whoa. Mand— Amanda, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scold you. I'm just concerned, is all. Last time I saw you guys, Liv was a wreck and you were a half-dead wreck. Not to mention high as a kite. And now you're here alone, and she's home with the kids and guns? You gotta admit, it's weird."

"I ain't alone. You're here." Amanda tore her gaze away from the game and tried to focus on Daphne. Something was off about her eyes, and it took Daphne a moment to realize the detective's pupils were dilated, almost fully engulfing the light blue irises. She looked like one of those creepy paintings of big-eyed children that Amy Adams did a movie about years ago. "Was Liv really a wreck?" she asked, her tone oddly hopeful.

Daphne gaped in disbelief, nodding slowly and deliberately, the way she did when members of the public wandered into her office to ask bizarre—or just plain dumb—questions. One time, a mother about to lose custody of her six kids had ducked into the clerk station and asked Daphne to hide a dime bag of coke for her until after the hearing. That was how Daphne looked at Amanda now.

"Um, duh. I've never seen her that devastated before. Not even that night with . . . well, you know." Daphne rarely spoke Orion's name out loud. And it broke her heart to admit, but she'd started to forget Meredith. She would always remember the hair, though—before and after, when it was scattered on the ground like wind-tossed sheaves of wheat. The hair and the eyes. "I think she really thought you were going to die. She was blaming herself for not protecting you better. And because of some argument you guys had. She could barely hold it together. That woman loves you like crazy, Mandy Lou."

It didn't seem possible for Amanda to get any paler than she already was, and yet she blanched a few shades lighter at the revelation. The dice popped loudly inside their dome, causing her to start and grab for her abdomen, cringing. When she opened her eyes again, they were watery but more cognizant. She stared at the craps table and the rest of her surroundings like she didn't remember how she'd gotten there. "Shit, Daph, I screwed up. I screwed up so bad."

"What?" Daphne furrowed her brow, trying hard to follow along. Because of her off-color sense of humor and tendency to lighten the mood with a laugh, she was usually delegated the role of fun friend, rather than confidante. But she could be serious when it counted—and Amanda looked as if she needed someone to listen right then, not make jokes. "Honey, what do you mean? How'd you screw up?"

"I—"

Amanda had visibly struggled to get that much out, but before she could find the right words to follow it up with, a waitress appeared beside them, two tumblers of amber-colored liquid balanced on a tray she practically held under their noses. "Compliments of the gentleman at the bar," she explained, pointing over her shoulder at the sleazebag from earlier, who was indeed seated on one of the barstools. He grinned and waggled his fingers at them, trying for boyish and cute, and falling short at annoying and gross.

"Tell him the lesbians at the craps table said no thanks," Daphne said, turning her nose up at the bourbon she'd just caught a whiff of. Not her drink. She preferred mixed drinks, with lots of sweet ingredients to mask the flavor of the alcohol. And she preferred receiving them from gay women—the sweetest ingredient of all—not straight men who couldn't take a hint.

But Amanda had other ideas. She scooped up both glasses from the tray, nodded thanks to the departing waitress, and took a long pull at one of the bourbons. Her cheeks were still bulging with liquid when she offered the other drink to Daphne, switching the tumbler back and forth enticingly. "You sure? It's free booze," she said, crunching on the mouthful of ice chips that remained after her labored gulp.

"I'm good. And . . . you might wanna slow it down just a skosh yourself." Giving it a second thought, Daphne intercepted the drink and set it aside before Amanda started in on that one too. She'd been drunk and stoned in front of the other woman; she couldn't exactly lecture Amanda on moderation. But she could play keep away. "If Al sees you over here guzzling his drinks like a big gay fish, he's going to take it as an invitation."

The warning came too late. No more than three seconds after the words left her mouth, Al casually strolled over to stand behind both of them, one hand resting on the back of Daphne's chair, the other—still cradling his vodka—on the back of Amanda's. "Glad to see you girls are enjoying my peace offering," he announced to anyone within earshot, then added an aside to Daphne: "I took the liberty of choosing for you, I hope you don't mind. Seems you two have similar . . . tastes, so I figured you for a bourbon girl as well."

The innuendo in his voice at the mention of their similar tastes made Daphne feel ill. That was the voice men used when they were about to say something completely inappropriate and offensive. Or in this guy's case, even more inappropriate and offensive. "Actually, I think it tastes like ass. Here, you look like you'd enjoy it." She plucked up the tumbler from the game station and offered it over.

Amanda let out an appreciative chuckle at the insult, munching some more ice as she watched the scene unfold like she was parked in front of a television. It only held her interest for so long, though; she kept glancing over her shoulder to check on the progress of the game. She was so preoccupied, she barely noticed when Al's hand and the glass of vodka came to rest on her shoulder again.

"My friend seems to like it," he said in such a slimy voice, Daphne wanted to gag. She had a low threshold for tolerating men as it was, and this so-called Dr. Al had already gone way beyond the limit. He flashed what he no doubt considered a charming smile. "Why don't you give it to her? How's about it, friend? You want little cutie pie here to give it to you?"

The alcohol had put some color in Amanda's wan cheeks and she was squinting more than usual, like everyone and everything were suspect, but thankfully she wasn't too drunk to catch his insinuation. "Man, get your hands off me and leave us the hell alone." She reached up and pushed the glass away, Al's hand going with it. He lost his grip for a moment, the glass tipping and spilling a stream of vodka down Amanda's sleeve. She jerked back her arm as if it were acid instead of alcohol soaking into her shirt.

"Dammit," said Al, holding the dripping glass away from his own clothes and shaking the moisture from his fingers. ( _Push the button!_ cried the machine.) Before he got himself under control, the man looked up with such anger blazing in his eyes, Daphne shrank back in fear. Amanda shoved her chair in reverse as well, but she was still reacting to the spilled drink and hadn't seen that dark, deadly flash. By the time she pushed her chair sideways and glared up at him, the fire had been snuffed out.

"I am really sorry about that." Al felt around at the pockets of his sport coat and jeans, as if he might have a spare handkerchief stored away somewhere. Of course he didn't. No one did that anymore. He shrugged sheepishly—whoops, this isn't 1956!—and glanced around until he spotted the waitress who had brought the drinks. "Can we get some napkins over here?" he called, snapping his fingers at her.

"It's fine. Just . . . don't worry about it." Amanda threw her hand up impatiently to silence his continued apologies. Heaving a sigh, she pinched the wet sleeve away from her skin and tried to flap the material dry.

"You wanna go to the bathroom and dry it under the hand blower thing?" Daphne suggested, just as eager to get away from Al as to help Amanda clean up. She held a hand out to her friend. "Come on."

"Or," said Al, taking a step forward, until he was practically standing between them. "I've got a room at the Hilton, right next to JFK. Take us ten minutes to get there, tops. If you're still, uh, wet by then, you're more than welcome to take off your shirt. Both of you, as a matter of fact."

"Gross," Daphne muttered.

"The fuck you just say to me?" Amanda gaped up at him like he had suggested she strip naked right there at the craps table. And judging by the gleam in his eye as he looked her up and down—and then Daphne—he was picturing something quite similar.

"Don't be shy. I'll take mine off too." Al winked at Amanda and downed what was left of his vodka. He must not have been a bourbon man either, because he left the tumbler Daphne had returned to him untouched, using it merely as a prop to gesture with as he added, "Gotta keep it even. In fact, three's an odd number. Why don't you go ahead and give your wife a call, blondie? If she's anywhere near as gorgeous as you two, I'd like to meet her. Tell her Doctor Al can fix her right up."

Although Daphne didn't know exactly what was going on with Amanda tonight, she knew for a fact that Dr. Al-Schmal had just signed his own death warrant. She'd been on enough double dates with Amanda and her fiancée—and more often than not, tagged along as the perpetually single but adorable and quirky best friend—to realize no one got away with speaking out of turn about Olivia. Even just eyeing the captain or breathing in her general direction was frowned upon by the blonde at her side. Daphne got away with it because her flirting was done in jest (most of the time) and she would never dream of encroaching on her friends' relationship, but God help anyone else who tried to put the moves on Captain Benson.

Daphne had always thought the jealousy and fierce protectiveness was cute. Romantic, even. She'd pined for someone who felt that strongly about her. But as she watched Amanda spring up from her seat and slug Al in the face, she began to reconsider her stance. It happened so quickly, she couldn't process what she was seeing at first: Amanda's fist smashing into the guy's nose ( _"Push the button!"_ ); the subsequent crunch, the spurt of blood and of bourbon as it was flung out of his hand; his faltering steps as he staggered backward in surprise, clutching his nose and cursing ("You bitch! You fucking crazy—").

And then the retaliation. He came at Amanda hard and fast. If she hadn't already been injured, hadn't been doubled forward holding her stomach, the other hand on her knee for balance, she probably could have eluded him. Daphne clambered up and tried to block his path, only to be knocked back into her seat as he shoved past and punched Amanda in the face. Daphne cried out, but the detective didn't make a sound as she stumbled back against the craps table, a hand clamped over her eye, and sank to the floor.

"Oh my God, oh God." Daphne scooted off her chair and dropped to her knees beside Amanda, peering into the visible half of the woman's dazed face. She had no idea what she should look for, other than to make sure everything was still intact. The side she could see appeared normal enough, though twisted in pain. "Amanda honey, are you okay? I can't believe he hit you. I can't believe you hit her, you fucking asshole! She just got shot a couple weeks ago, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"She hit me first," Al shouted back in a flat, nasal tone. He was pinching his nostrils together, cutting off the blood that flowed freely from either side and down his chin in macabre red streaks.

He turned a murderous glare on Daphne, looking frighteningly like a zombie right out of one of her nightmares, with the blood oozing across his lips and staining the front of his blue button-down shirt. She grabbed for her cane, prepared to take out his kneecap or maybe his balls when he moved towards her. But he was focused on Amanda now, a contrite expression—or at least a less psychotic one—crossing his features when he registered her ashen skin and agonized face.

"I just want to see if she's all right," he said, putting up his free hand defensively.

"Of course she's not all right." Daphne lowered the cane, but kept a tight grip on it just in case. She had once joked with Amanda about getting a swordstick, one of those antique walking sticks with a hidden blade sheathed inside. Her friend had laughed and called her Daphne: Warrior Princess. Now it didn't seem like such a silly idea after all. "You punched her in the face, you dick. She's, like, half your size."

"M'okay," Amanda said thickly, struggling to sit forward from the panel she was slumped against, below the table. She grunted and cradled her belly as Daphne helped guide her upright. When Al tried to approach again, she kicked out lamely at him. "Don't fuckin' touch me, you sonuvabitch."

By then, a crowd of onlookers had gathered around the craps table, and a very large man in a very large Hawaiian shirt and Birkenstocks stepped up to block Al's path. He stood a full head taller than the doctor and he gave his gigantic mane of bushy curls a discouraging shake as Al made to sidestep him. "Uh-uh," he said, and grabbed a fistful of Al's sport coat, holding it by the shoulder until the security guard arrived.

The security guard was young—no one who worked in this place looked over twenty-five—but he listened soberly to Al's version of events, an eyebrow raised in Amanda and Daphne's direction while the Hawaiian shirt guy helped them to their feet. He placed Daphne's cane in her hands like he was presenting a toothpick to a mouse, and he kept a hand under Amanda's elbow until she was steady on her feet. Meanwhile, Al pointed at them, raising his voice above all the electronic noise, and said, "The blonde one attacked me, so I defended myself. Look at what she did to my nose."

His pinched nostrils had provided him with a lisp, and the last part sounded like "nothes." A few of the onlookers laughed aloud, whether at the pronunciation or the idea of him needing to defend himself against someone as harmless-looking as Amanda. Even the security guard appeared to be suppressing a smile. He kept glancing down at his shoes, head lowered, lips drawn into a firm line. "Sir, I understand, but I still have to ask you to leave. Fighting is prohibited on casino grounds—"

"What about sexual harassment, is that prohibited too?" Daphne demanded, unable to hold back her anger as she listened to the guard's polite, detached tone. She didn't care if Amanda had swung first or not—there was no excusing Al's behavior, and someone should call him out on it. If it had to be her, then so be it. "Because that pig propositioned us and made lewd comments, despite our asking that he leave us alone. Not to mention he assaulted a police officer who was recently wounded in the line of duty."

She'd embellished a little there at the end, but it was worth it to see the mood of the crowd shift from mildly entertained to homicidal. A murmur of displeasure went up around the table ("Push the button," suggested the computer generated voice above), and the security guard immediately became more invested, his gaze darting to Amanda as he straightened his posture and hitched up his belt.

"Daph," Amanda said quietly, giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head. She was still covering her left eye, but the right one glared daggers at Daphne, stormy blue in color, with red lightning zigzagging through the white.

Apparently Daphne had said too much yet again—it seemed to be a recurring theme for her—although she wasn't sure if it had been revealing Amanda's profession or mentioning her injury that did it. Probably the former, since they were about to be escorted from a casino, for disorderly conduct. Way to go, Daphne Marie.

"You're a cop?" Al asked in disbelief. He had finally let go of his nose, which was now noticeably off center, reminding Daphne of a cartoon villain who had walked into a brick wall and flattened his schnoz. At least it added some character to a face otherwise as bland as oatmeal.

Not to be outdone, Amanda lowered her hand as well, exposing her puffy pink eyelids, already so swollen only a sliver of blue iris remained visible between them. She was going to have one hell of a shiner tomorrow. "Yeah, NYPD," she said gruffly, her stance stiff and unnatural, like an awkwardly constructed department store mannequin. She tried relaxing her arm from the side she was favoring, and winced. "What of it, you wanna press charges? 'Cause I think I have a pretty good defense."

"And a witness," Daphne chimed in, rapping her cane on the floor. She seldom used her disability to get special treatment—she hadn't even accepted her doctor's offer of a handicap placard for parking—but if it made Al look like more of a heel for harassing the lady with the cane, it was worth it.

"Witnesses," said the big guy in the Hawaiian shirt. He nodded in solidarity when Daphne cast a grateful glance up (and up) at him.

Al scoffed at the claims, but a sidelong glimpse of the crowd—some of whom had lost interest and disbanded, the ones who remained eyeing him with disapproval—reinforced that he was alone in this fight. He heaved a disgusted sigh and threw a dismissive wave at Amanda. "Screw it. And screw you both. I don't need this," he said, and jerked his arm free when the guard tried to lead him away. With that, he turned and went on his own, ignoring the smattering of applause that accompanied his departure.

"Are you all right, officer?" asked the security guard, approaching with caution, as if he expected Amanda to lash out like a wounded animal. Poor kid didn't know how to handle an injured woman or a roughed up superior officer.

"It's Detective," Daphne corrected flatly. She didn't feel that sorry for him.

"Sorry. Sorry, ma'am." The kid bent down to collect the tumblers Al had dropped when Amanda's right hook made its debut. He gestured with one in each hand as he stood. "Sorry, Detective. Is there anything I can do? You want some ice for that eye? Or should I call—"

"I'm fine. I don't need anything, thanks." Amanda turned towards the chair she'd been sitting in and tried to pick up her coat from the floor, where it had landed after falling from her lap. But she cringed and held onto her hip like a runner with a stitch in her side, unable to move that way. Giving a brief nod of thanks to their friend in the Hawaiian shirt, who plucked up the coat and offered it to her—it looked doll-sized in his grizzly bear hands—she faced Daphne again and said, "Let's get outta here."

"That's not necessary, ma'am. You're welcome to stay and finish your game."

From the eye not swollen shut, Amanda tossed a sharp look in the guard's direction, then another over her shoulder at the craps table. The second glance lasted much longer, only concluding when the electronic announcer bawled out, "Push the button!" Amid further protests, she gathered Daphne by the arm—though she needed more support than Daphne did, at the moment—and led them towards the exit doors.

**. . .**


	28. Chapter 27: The Devil Made Me Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N from ff.net: Wow, okay, this update is suuuper late and I apologize. I am considering switching updates to Mondays, instead of Sundays, though. We'll see how it goes this time. Also, I wanted to apologize to anyone who's PM'd me in the past several months (like... since the beginning of the year). In keeping with the weirdness of 2020, this hellsite has not been notifying me that I've received PM's, and there were a ton that I just read for the first time today. To anyone who thought I was ignoring you, I'm sorry. I just wasn't getting the messages. Now that I'm aware of the problem, I'll keep a closer eye on my PM's. And apparently we have a plagiarizer in our midst again. It was brought to my attention that a user named "Riley Bishop" plagiarized my story "In the Night, In the Dark" and several other fics by other authors. I've reported her and wanted to thank everyone else who has done the same. Thank you! She's got multiple accounts, and she's done this in the past, so we'll see if the problem gets cleared up this time... hey, Riley, if you're reading this? Write your own damn stories and stay the fuck outta my 'verse, yo. Phew, okay. Here's the chapter, for non-plagiarizing, non-asshole eyes only. ;P Enjoy!

## CHAPTER 27: The Devil Made Me Do It

**. . .**

For once, Daphne didn't have to worry about slowing down her swift-legged friend. Amanda plodded along dully, not saying a word until she requested that they stop at the cashier's booth. There, she shoved a handful of barcoded tickets under the glass partition, and moments later received what appeared to be a few hundred dollars in cash from a woman in a crisp white shirt and black bow tie on the other side. She folded the bills and stuffed them into her already bulging pants pocket.

"Well, at least you cleaned up," Daphne said, as they resumed their trek to the doors. She didn't get a response and she barely heard the mumbled "thanks" when she helped Amanda on with her coat, rescuing the long blonde hair that got trapped beneath the collar. She'd never taken off her own coat inside the casino, and they stepped into the cold night air without any further ado. Only then did it occur to Daphne that a little more ado, in the form of a waiting cab, would have been a wiser choice. She was about to suggest waiting inside the foyer and calling for a ride, but Amanda finally spoke up.

"You care if I smoke?" The detective pulled a pack of Camels from her coat pocket, tapped the last cigarette into her palm, and dunked the empty container in a trash can by the curb. Pinching the cigarette between her lips, she dug into another pocket and brought forth a set of keys and the lighter Daphne remembered squealing over last Valentine's Day, before the nightmare began, when her only concerns were getting laid and playing matchmaker to Amanda and her boss.

" _She bought you a revolver keychain that literally shoots fire. It's because her lady loins are burning for you, Mandy Lou. Take her before she bursts into flames."_

"Uh, okay," Daphne replied with obvious disapproval. Obvious to anyone but Amanda, it seemed. The detective was already trudging over to the three-tiered fountain at the heart of the casino's roundabout parking lot. Her regular gait, fast and clipped and straight as an arrow, was now more of a hobble, with occasional winded pauses. She plopped down at the edge of the bright, burbling fountain, cupped her hand around the cigarette, and lit the tip with her revolver keychain.

Peer pressure had led Daphne down some unfortunate roads in the past—everything from fashion faux pas to dating boys—but she'd never once been tempted by cigarettes. The smell alone was reason enough, not to mention the health hazards. If she had to be taken out by an addictive substance, she'd prefer it was something enjoyable like chocolate cake or sex. Or chocolate cake _and_ sex.

She took a seat at Amanda's left, away from the hand that held the cigarette, her back turned to the wind. At that angle, the smoke blew in the opposite direction and she had an up-close view of Amanda's swollen, leaky eye. Jesus, it looked bad. Botched Botox injection bad. Daphne wanted to inquire about it, but she could barely get her friend to glance at her, let alone admit she was in pain.

"You sure you feel safe sitting this close to an open body of water with me?" she asked, jutting her thumb at the overflowing basins and the spouts of water that frolicked in the heated fountain like leaping dolphins.

"Huh?" A ribbon of smoke unfurled from Amanda's mouth as she tugged compulsively at her lower lip, exposing a row of slightly impacted bottom teeth. She glanced back at the water, suddenly remembering the impromptu swim she had taken in the Catskills when Daphne accidentally knocked her into a stream in the woods—or at least pretending to remember. "Oh. Right. That was somethin'."

Daphne smiled and nodded along, but Amanda was fiddling with her lip again and staring blankly into the bottom tier of the fountain. An assortment of coins, mostly pennies and dimes, littered the basin floor, probably tossed there by gamblers wishing to turn their copper and silver into gold.

"Don't think I ever told ya this," said the detective, her voice faraway, accent thicker than usual, "but right after that's when I first kissed 'er. Liv, I mean. We were dryin' off in front of the fireplace. Had this blanket wrapped around us. I's scared shitless, but she was so . . . perfect. I tried tellin' her that, and she wouldn't believe me. She never fuckin' believes me."

Amanda took a drag from the cigarette and exhaled the smoke with a derisive laugh. "Why should she? Look at me. Look where I am."

Although Daphne hadn't heard the full story of what happened between her friends that night, she'd suspected there was some romance brewing. And not just for the policewomen. She and Meredith had done a lot more than kiss when they went upstairs together. That had been their first time with each other—and their last. It still hurt to think about, so Daphne did it as little as possible. Besides, she needed to focus on Amanda's problems right now. That was the second time tonight the other woman had mentioned Olivia in less than glowing terms, which was practically unheard of. If there were two things Daphne knew for certain in this life, the first was that she loved women—a lot—and the second was that Amanda Rollins worshipped the ground Olivia Benson walked on.

"Honey, what happened with you two? Did you guys get into a fight or something?" Daphne forgot about the cigarette and leaned in closer to her friend. She silently cursed her short legs for dangling an inch or two above the ground. Being serious was difficult when you resembled a child in a booster seat swinging her feet back and forth. "Because that happens. I know this is your first serious relationship with a woman, but we girls fight sometimes too. And I'm no expert on the heteros, but I think lesbian fights are about ten times worse than straight ones."

"This wasn't just a fight, Daph. I've had fights before, believe me. This was . . . " Amanda contemplated the tip of her cigarette for a long time, before flicking the accumulated ashes into the fountain. "This was bad. I's mean to her on purpose. I wanted— I wanted to hurt her."

"Like . . . physically?" Daphne asked, hesitant even to say it out loud. She couldn't imagine Amanda ever trying to harm Olivia in any capacity, let alone a physical one, but something bad had happened tonight, that much was clear. Up until about fifteen minutes ago, Daphne wouldn't have expected Amanda to break some stranger's nose while she was blotto in a casino—and in Queens, of all places—either. The blonde got a little rowdy sometimes, but it had always been in good fun, as far as Daphne could tell.

Amanda's head shot up like a bird dog catching a whiff of game. She pinched the cigarette from her lips with her thumb and middle finger, the way guys did in movies, and exhaled in a long, forceful stream. "Why would you even ask me that?" she demanded, getting to her feet and pacing back and forth beside the concrete wall of the fountain. "Hell no, physically. I would never do that to her. I'm not a goddamn wife-beater. I know literally everyone thinks I'm just like that sonuvabitch, but I ain't, goddammit."

Halting abruptly, she gave the wall a swift, brutal kick that must have hurt, despite the hard toe of her boot. Indeed, she limped for the next several steps, finally returning to drop down so closely and heavily beside Daphne, it was a wonder they didn't both tumble backwards into the fountain. It couldn't be any colder in there than on the outside, though. Northern girl or not, Daphne was even less tolerant of the winter than was her little Southern friend. Her teeth were starting to chatter; meanwhile, Amanda barely seemed to notice the chill deflected by the water.

"What son of a bitch?" Daphne queried, trying her best to follow along, despite her discomfort and confusion. She didn't know of any wife-beaters Amanda would be referring to, other than the criminals the detective helped put away on a regular basis.

There was no answer for such a long time, Daphne thought Amanda might not have heard her. The fountain, the wind, and the traffic on the main road were conspiring in one loud and constant rush. As she was about to repeat herself, Amanda muttered what sounded like, "Mean Dean," the cigarette bobbing up and down in her mouth, resembling a conductor's energetic wand. When she caught sight of Daphne's questioning gaze, she added in a grudging tone, "My daddy."

From the handful of times Amanda had mentioned her father, Daphne gleaned that they were estranged from each other. She'd yet to find the courage to ask why, especially after Amanda had gone on a ten minute rant about her mother when Daphne mistakenly wondered aloud why the woman didn't visit her granddaughter more.

For Daphne, the youngest of five siblings in a close-knit family, the idea of having such a strained relationship with her own parents was unimaginable. Until becoming friends with Amanda and Olivia, who hardly ever spoke of having parents at all, she hadn't realized just how broken families could be. And it only seemed to get worse, the more she learned about the Rollinses. "Oh," she said, and for once, it was the only thing she could think of to say.

"He used to beat the hell outta my mama. She's lucky he didn't kill 'er during one of his rages. Always thought he might . . . " Amanda picked a speck off the tip of her tongue and wiped it on her jeans. She looked as though she wanted to continue, but she took a shaky drag of the cigarette instead. The smoke stuttered when she released it.

"Oh my God, that's awful. I'm so sorry, Amanda." Daphne forced herself to put down the hand she had cupped over her mouth in shock. She felt horribly inadequate right then, with just her experience as a court clerk to rely on. She read about the domestic violence cases and, on very rare occasions, she might see an altercation inside the courthouse, but those people were names and numbers in a file. Most of the time, she didn't speak with them or get to offer sympathy; she wouldn't know where to begin if she did. "I had no idea. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well," Amanda said, and gave a small shrug, "I never told you, so how could you know? I don't like people knowin' about it and makin' a big deal of it. They either think that's why I've got so many problems, or that I'm just like him. I'm surprised fuckin' Alex hasn't tried smuggling Liv off to some safe house by now. Or into her bed."

Blowing into her hands for warmth, Daphne forgot herself and spoke in a muffled tone through the tunnel of her fists. "What? Who the hell's Alex?"

Cigarette wedged in the corner of her mouth, Amanda leaned up on one hip and scrounged for the bump inside the pocket of her jeans. It turned out to be a small box, too flat for a ring, but of similar design. She handed it over to Daphne, exhaling a rivulet of smoke from the side of her mouth not supporting the cigarette, and said, "Don't flash 'em around."

They had no company at the fountain, but people filtered in and out of the casino in a ceaseless stream, and this was New York. Daphne had learned the hard way not to flash money or anything of value on the streets when she first moved to the city—and was promptly mugged by a man wearing a gorilla mask. He'd taken twelve dollars in cash and her favorite purse, the one with cherries all over the faux leather. From that day forward, she kept her money hidden as she counted it, held tight to her purses, and assumed everything was eligible to be stolen.

And the earrings were definitely eligible. They glittered brilliantly in the light from the fountain, each and every diamond winking up at Daphne from its velveteen cushion; the teardrop gems that dangled at the bottom were so exquisite, they almost brought real tears to her eyes. She guarded the box inside her cupped hands, gazing down with nothing short of bedazzlement. If the mood had been right, she would have hissed, _My precious_. As it was, she tried to contain her adoration for shiny, high-end jewelry, and looked to Amanda for an explanation.

"From Alex. To my— to Liv." Head turned, Amanda glanced into the box from the corner of her good eye, then reclaimed the earrings as furtively as a drug dealer accepting payment in a back alley. She tucked them away quickly and took one last, long pull at her cigarette before crushing it out on the heel of her boot. Flicking the butt towards the parking lot, she blew an aerosol of smoke heavenward. "Supposedly just a nice, platonic gift from an old friend. To be worn at our wedding. Somethin' blue."

"Alex is a woman?" Daphne guessed hesitantly, though she was fairly certain she had it right. No way a man had picked out anything as lovely and perfect for Olivia as those earrings. Only someone who understood the captain's sophisticated style, appreciated her rare and elegant beauty, would dare bestow such a gift.

Amanda made a light scoffing sound and nodded. "Yeah. A tall, rich, blonde woman. Used to be an ADA, but now she helps battered wives escape their husbands. Her 'n Liv have been friends for, like, twenty years. Liv swears nothing happened and I believe her, but . . . I know there was an attraction. She as good as admitted it. She's meetin' Alex for lunch tomorrow. Just the two of 'em."

Dysfunctional families might not be Daphne's forte, but she could write a book on disgruntled girlfriends—from the perspective of one, and as an observer of those around her. Amanda was a prime specimen, her jealousy of this Alex chick wildly obvious. Daphne knew all too well the dangers of obsessing over a romantic partner's former lovers. The first time she dated a bisexual, she'd gotten so hung up on how many guys the young woman had slept with, she ruined the relationship by getting upset every time her girlfriend talked to a man. And she had caught one of her exes going through her emails, searching for proof that she was cheating with her yoga instructor (she hadn't been, but a part of her wanted to, after being accused of it so often). She hoped to save Amanda from heading down that slippery slope—or getting any farther along the one she was already on, from the sound of it.

"And you're feeling insecure and threatened because Liv's spending time with her," Daphne ventured, gaze straying to Amanda's lap, the square impression in her pocket now concealed by the long hem of her coat. "And she's buying your wife, or good as, crazy expensive and _gorgeous_ jewelry— sorry, buying flashy jewelry that you can't afford, all the while being some tall, hot blonde and having this whole big history with Liv?"

A peevish frown darkened Amanda's features and she scuffed the toe of her boot against the asphalt, kicking an imaginary rock. "Pretty much," she grumbled, then thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her coat, as if annoyed to acquiesce, both to Daphne's assessment and the cold. "Am I that damned transparent and pathetic?"

"Nah, actually you're kind of hard to read sometimes." Daphne ducked down for a glimpse of the detective's face under all the loose, blonde waves. She smiled sympathetically when a single blue eye peered in her direction. "But I've been there. Not engaged to someone as incredible as Liv, mind you, but I've had my share of lookers with rich exes who came sniffing back around."

"Really?" Amanda lifted her head gradually, until she no longer looked quite so defeated. Or at least until the hair was out of her face. The swollen eye was a major distraction, but she seemed oddly resigned to it; maybe even a little pleased with it.

Daphne gave an emphatic nod, her own dark bob fluttering around her ears. She hadn't realized how much she depended on her long hair during conversations, whether for flirting or tossing or just making a point, til she'd gotten several inches of it trimmed off. Now she missed the expressiveness—and the warmth—it had provided. "Absolutely. You know me and my thing for actresses. Bobbie had all kinds of admirers. I know she was a pain in the ass, but you gotta admit, she was smokin' hot. And Mere . . . "

Hearing the name out loud came as no less of a shock than being dunked head first into the fountain behind her. Luckily, a gust of wind at that exact moment snatched her breath away and made for the perfect excuse to abandon the rest of that sentence. She didn't know what she'd planned to say, anyway. She never got the chance to build anything solid with Meredith. Sometimes when she got really lonely, she worried that Meredith Ashton had been "the one"—and the only.

"My point is, they could've had their pick of richer, more successful people than me. And it bugged me, sure. But I think a little jealousy is normal. Healthy, even. Girls can say what they want, but they all kinda like it when their girlfriend is ready to fight for them. You just don't want to take it too far. Otherwise you end up getting tossed out of a casino, with a black eye."

Amanda tried to smile when Daphne nudged her shoulder, but it faded before her lips were fully engaged, the corners curling down like the petals of a dying rose, shriveling in on themselves. "I took it too far. I used things against her. Things I swore I'd never— Christ, the look on her face. She's never gonna trust me again, Daph. 'Specially if I tell her where I ended up." She motioned with her elbow at the neon vista in front of them, then spat on the ground as if she were cursing the very earth the casino was built upon.

"What's so bad about this place? It looked to me like you did pretty well in there." Granted, Daphne didn't have much experience with casinos, but the two or three times she'd been to one, neither she nor her friends had made out half as well as Amanda had tonight. "Liv's not an old stick in the mud. I bet she'll understand you just needed to blow off some—"

"I'm an addict," Amanda said, her voice the clearest and most certain it had been since she'd called Daphne an hour and a half ago. She sighed like a weight had just lifted from her shoulders, her posture even rising a little. "A compulsive gambler. I've been clean for going on seven years in March. This is my first slip since before Jess was born. Well, technically second."

"Oh," Daphne tried to say, resulting only in a heavier puff of vapor from her parted lips. She had noted some strange comments here and there by the detective ("Sorry, kiddo, you'll have to find someone else to teach you poker"; "I don't take bets, not even for fun, okay?"; "My luck ran dry 'bout six years ago"), but she always assumed Amanda was just being extra cranky or cynical when that happened. She cringed inwardly, thinking of all the times she'd teased Amanda about it.

"Is that why you won't play the lottery?" she asked, and immediately felt foolish for letting it out. No wonder her friend didn't confide more in her, when she went around blabbing inane and insensitive questions like that.

"Yeah, that's why. Although . . . " Amanda gave a little mirthless sniff of laughter. She tilted her head back and laughed again, up at the sky this time, as though sharing a private joke with the cosmos. Too diabolically funny for mortal ears. "I messed up and played a scratch ticket a couple weeks ago. Convinced myself I could handle it. And by golly, if I didn't win five whole smackers. It's been downhill ever since."

She kept her gaze trained just over Daphne's shoulder, a disconcerting feeling with one eye out of commission and the other focused on something unseen in the dark parking lot. "Nah, before that. Since the damn earrings showed up, at least," she said decisively, but shook her head while her foggy breath still lingered midair. "Hell, I dunno. Probably even more'n that. Think I been on this track for a good long while."

"Well, it has been an eventful couple of years for you," Daphne reasoned, hoping to steer Amanda away from the self-loathing so evident in her tone. What Daphne knew of addiction, she learned from one of her big brothers, whose struggles to kick a prescription drug habit had nearly cost him his job and his marriage. Addicts liked to make a lot of excuses, true, but the recovered ones didn't just give up their sobriety for no reason. "The thing with the Mangler, then you almost got your head blown off in that shoot-out. Then we all almost died in the woods."

 _Some of us did_ , she added silently, ignoring the dim flicker of recognition in Amanda's face when she finally made eye contact. "You started dating your boss, had a pretty major lifestyle change—i.e. your sexuality. You moved into a new apartment, got an instant family, got engaged, got shot." Daphne took a deep breath, mentally checking off the list. She felt as if she were forgetting a few important items, but the remaining handful would suffice: " _Then_ the earrings, then your mom slapped your fiancée, then the scratch-off ticket."

"Well, shit." Amanda looked on dazedly, like she had just returned to the launch point of a supersonic roller coaster. "No wonder I'm so fucked up. Has that seriously all been in the past two years? Jesus, I didn't even realize . . . "

Nodding confirmation, Daphne softened the news with a pat to her friend's knee. They were still just dog run buddies at the start of those two whirlwind years, sipping their coffee and chattering while Frannie and Hamilton chased each other around the fence, getting out their zoomies. Little had Daphne known how much her life would change in that short amount of time; and judging by the reaction, little had Amanda.

"Yeah, hon, it has. And while I'm sure having a charming, delightful friend such as I has helped you through all that upheaval, it's still a lot for one person. Especially one with an addiction. You should cut yourself some slack. Okay, so you messed up once or twice. Big deal. You're not so deep in it that you can't put it behind you and start fresh tomorrow. One night—or even a few weeks—doesn't undo seven years."

The detective was listening intently, and though the inflamed and puffy side of her face made it difficult to tell, she appeared somewhat hopeful. But the faint, tremulous glimmer was snuffed out the very next instant, Amanda's features going dark again. "That might be true 'bout the gambling, but I can't just start fresh with Liv. She ain't gonna forget what I done anytime soon. How'm I s'posed to get her to forgive me, Daph?"

"You could start by going home and apologizing," Daphne said, blunt but not unkind. She hugged herself tightly, chafing the sleeves of her coat with both hands. "And maybe calling a warm cab to share with your hypothermic bestie? Look, I know how intimidating Liv is, with the never-ending legs and those brown eyes, like two steaming hot cups of mocha latte that stare deep into your soul—"

"All right."

"Sorry. My point is, no matter how tough she seems, Liv's a good person. Probably one of the kindest, most understanding people I've ever met. She puts up with me, and I'm a handful." Daphne struck a pin-up girl pose—no easy feat in winter layers and snow boots—and made a sweeping gesture from head to foot. "Of fun, but still a handful. And she loves you, Mandy Lou. Like, more than anybody has ever loved anyone. If you ask her to, she'll forgive you. I think she'd do anything for you."

It may have been a trick of the shimmering light from the fountain, but it looked as if Amanda's bottom lip quivered. For a moment, she didn't respond, instead shuffling her boots back and forth against the pavement like she was trying to warm her feet. When she did speak up, her voice was as thin and cracked as her lips. "Yeah, that's what scares me sometimes."

"Why?" Daphne asked with genuine surprise.

"I dunno." Amanda twitched her shoulders sullenly. "Pro'ly 'cause I'm a piece of shit like my daddy, and I'll just end up hurting her. I proved that tonight. Better to do it now while she can get out than later when she's tied down like my mama was. I wanted to throw something at her, Daphne. Just the earring box, but still. What the hell's wrong with me? Why would I even think somethin' that awful?"

The anguish on Amanda's face brought tears to Daphne's eyes. As quick as she was to laugh, she was equally prone to cry, most notably when someone she cared about started in first. She held back with all her might now, not wanting to be the reason Amanda, her feisty and fearless friend, broke down. "You didn't throw it, did you?"

"No, but I had it in my hand." Amanda yanked up the bottom of her coat and pried the box from her pocket, shaking it violently in her fist. The earrings hissed inside like angry snakes. "Like this. And I thought about it. I coulda done it, I was so mad."

"Yeah, but you didn't," Daphne said hurriedly, coaxing Amanda to lower the wielded box. She was more concerned about how deeply upset her friend was by her own actions than what might be done with the upraised object or the hand holding it. "You thought about it, and you stopped yourself. How many times did your dad ever do that?"

Amanda released a contemptuous little huff that sounded like she had a popcorn hull stuck at the back of her throat. "Practically never, far as I can tell. If he got his hands on it, watch out."

"See? That just proves you're not like him. And everybody thinks crazy stuff when they're pissed. My brothers used to make me so mad I wanted to throw them in front of a bus—and yet, I'm the only one who's ever been run down by a motor vehicle. How's that for irony?" Daphne gave her cane a Chaplinesque rat-a-tat against the fountain ledge, but her attempt at humor went unnoticed and she returned the prop quietly to her side. "You had a passing thought, and you didn't act on it. And look how much it bothers you. Because you don't want to hurt Liv like that. Do wife-beaters worry about those sorts of things?"

"Not usually," Amanda muttered, chin tucked to her chest. She dribbled the box from hand to hand in her lap, gnashing the lid open and shut several times, then suddenly shoved it back into her jeans without ceremony. "They do whatever the hell they want, no matter who it hurts."

"And that's not you." Daphne bumped Amanda lightly with her arm, then leaned down to impress her next words firmly upon the detective. "You are not a piece of shit, okay? I've seen you with her and those kids—you always put them first. You've literally killed to protect her. And you basically took a bullet for her a few weeks ago. Who even does that? Superheroes and my Mandy Lou, that's who. You keep Olivia safe, honey, you don't abuse her."

Doubt lingered in the shadows on Amanda's face when she turned it toward Daphne. But she was listening, and that was progress. "You trust Liv's judgement, don't you?" Daphne asked, though she almost certainly knew the answer.

Bristling at the mere suggestion that she had anything other than absolute faith in her fiancée, Amanda squared her shoulders, puffed out her chest, and said a surly, "'Course I do."

"Then there you go. If you don't believe me or yourself, believe her. You know she wouldn't be with someone who was . . . " Daphne searched for the right word; something weighty enough to get her meaning across, something befitting of Captain Benson's caliber. "Unworthy."

"I dunno about that. She did date Cassidy for a long time."

"Who? I thought you were her first relationship with a woman?"

"Brian Cassidy," Amanda said, smiling wanly. "Never mind, bad joke."

"Oh, a guy. That explains it right there. She was settling." Daphne lifted her palms in a blameless gesture, as if to say she didn't make the rules, just dispensed them where applicable. "She thought she couldn't have what she really wanted, so she made do with whatever was handy."

Though Amanda's smile had faded, a faint smirk took its place—and that was even better. She looked more like herself that way. "I'm what she really wanted, huh?"

"Yes. Seriously. Think about everything she's done to be with you. Not with that Alex person or what's-his-face. She came out of the closet for _you_ , Amanda. She's marrying _you_. Making a family with _you_." Daphne jabbed her finger into the detective's bulky coat every time she stressed the pronoun. She and Amanda weren't as touchy-feely as she and some of her other friends, but they had a playful camaraderie that allowed for occasional poking, prodding, and physical banter. "She wouldn't do that with just anyone. She sees how special you are. So, stop second guessing it before you second guess yourself right out of a relationship. Because then I'd have to step up and marry her in your stead."

On the side of Amanda's face that was not swollen like she'd been stung by a swarm of angry bees, her eyebrow shot up. "Says who?"

"It's in the Bible," Daphne replied matter-of-factly. "Thou shalt marry thy best friend's hot fiancée and the dykes shall inherit the earth. It's after that passage about being fruitful and multiplying."

"Ah, I must have missed that Sunday school lesson," Amanda said, a shimmy in her shoulders belying her dry tone. She pressed her lips together against the laughter bubbling to the surface. It didn't last long, but it was enough to earn Daphne another small smile.

Following a lengthy pause, the fountain chortling well after the joke had lost its humor, Daphne fumbled through her purse with cold-stiffened fingers and brought out her cell phone. "What say we call a cab and get out of here? Maybe go someplace for a cup of coffee?"

"That your way of tellin' me I need to sober up before I go home and apologize?" Amanda asked, drawing back and squinting from her good eye. She could definitely do with some drying out, not to mention a brush and an ice pack, if she hoped to make a sincere and heartfelt effort at patching things up with Olivia.

"That," Daphne conceded, redialing the taxi service she had called earlier, "and I want something warm to wrap my hands around. It's colder than a witch's tit out here. I like hard nips as much as the next lesbo, but— Shit. Hi! Yeah, I need a pickup at Resorts World Casino . . . "

For the first time that evening, Amanda's laughter sounded genuine.

**. . .**


	29. Chapter 28: For the Night Is Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super quick author's note because I have to run out the door in a second. Just wanted to say thanks for the reviews of CH 27, and I'm sorry if I freaked anyone out by posting late on Monday. Oh, also the comment from CH 26 about whether Dr. Al in that chapter was the same one who's Billie's father on the show. Yep, one and the same. And still a ginormous creep either way. Okay, on to chapter 28. Happy reading!

## CHAPTER 28: For the Night Is Dark

**. . .**

Sneaking home at 2:30 AM, after a night of boozing, bruising, and raising Cain, was far less enjoyable at forty than it had been at seventeen. Back then, she only need worry about waking up her little sister—Mama was out like a light with one mint julep, the green sprig foundering in a watery grave of melted ice at the bottom of her highball glass, sometimes still clutched in her sleeping hand; Daddy usually didn't return from his carousing until well past 3 AM (sometimes they ran into each other, tiptoeing towards their respective bedrooms, giggly as a pair of schoolgirls)—and Kimmie slept like the dead.

Back then, she didn't have anyone counting on her to be anything other than a screw-up. _That Dean Rollins' girl is somethin' else._ A few of her daddy's friends, the ones who watched her a little too closely when they hung around mooching beers and shooting the shit, took to calling her Deanie at that age. She'd taken to flipping them off and strutting away with the neck of a Bud Light bottle between her knuckles, filched from the cooler sweating on the front porch. _"Aw, come back, Deanie. You used to sit in our laps all the time."_

"Fuckin'—" Amanda meant to conclude with "pervs," but the front door came ajar under her clumsy plying of the deadbolt and twisting of the knob. She stumbled forward, her weight still resting against the door and throwing it wide, the keys jingling like sleigh bells in the lock. Luckily, she caught herself—and the door—before any loud crashes could disturb the quiet apartment.

(No, not luck. She had to stop relying on that. It was just her quick reflexes, that's all.)

She wasn't drunk anymore. At least not very. Getting clocked in the face by someone fifty or sixty pounds heavier than you had a sobering effect, it turned out. Doctors didn't hit nearly as hard as bookies or undercover cops, though; probably didn't want to mess up his hand. Hers, however, was almost as mangled as her face, throbbing like a son of a bitch, the knuckles red and bloated. With so much liquid sloshing around on the inside and so much puffiness on the outside, she felt vaguely pregnant.

The coffee helped some, too. It had scorched the roof of her mouth ("Sweet Mother, who made this: Satan?" Daphne wheezed, fanning her tongue after the first sip), tasted like hot rubber and potting soil, and swirled in a shape and color that reminded her of cow patties. She'd drunk three full cups and peed in the diner bathroom before hopping the second cab.

Between the knuckle sandwich, the bad coffee, the arctic winds, and Daphne's lively, incessant chatter, Amanda was practically a new woman. Well, a less tipsy one, anyway. The ache in old Amanda's head and gut was ten times worse than when she'd left the casino. But somehow it was better that way. She knew what to do for physical pain.

 _I'm in_ , she texted to Daphne from the dark entrance. Her friend had made her promise to message the very instant she set foot safely inside the apartment. She'd more or less complied—maybe a step or two off. Before she could fumble on the dining room light switch, her phone buzzed twice.

 _Good_ , read Daphne's reply. _If I die in this cab, tell Liv it was me who got you_ _home in one piece._

And a second later:

_Also, that I was madly in love with her._

A garland of red hearts and kissy face emojis followed, and Amanda stifled an exasperated chuckle, switched off the blindingly bright screen, and stowed the phone back in her pocket. She immediately nicked her knee on the corner of the credenza and swore under her breath. Yet another aching body part to go along with the rest. Story of her night.

Rubbing at the assaulted kneecap, she flicked on the light and got the door shut and bolted behind her. Olivia was always after her to lock up right away so she didn't get distracted and forget, but the chances of that happening were slim. True, deadbolts were practically nonexistent in Loganville in the eighties and well into the nineties, but she'd learned to secure her doors—right quick, as they say—in Atlanta. And no way would she overlook such an important detail with her children and fiancée in the apartment. Their safety was her top priority.

Just as she was thinking it, she glanced around the room and realized something was wrong. For one thing, Frannie hadn't trotted up to greet her, and while she didn't usually come home this late, it felt strange not having fifty pounds of excited pit bull to wade through on her way to the living room. For another, the room smelled different. Someone had been here while she was gone—someone who wore expensive perfume, the kind a department store clerk had to produce from inside a display counter, the kind that lingered on the neck and inner wrists of the wearer for days. And in people's living rooms.

Amanda had only ever worn the cheap brands you could buy straight off the shelf, endorsed by pop stars and pseudo-celebrities, squat little bottles in improbable colors and shapes. She preferred the lighter, summery scents of body mists, truth be told. Olivia would be the more likely candidate for the aroma Amanda was picking up on, but the captain seldom wore perfume at all, save for the most special occasions. If she tried, Amanda could still conjure up the subtle, spicy fragrance that had emanated from Olivia's lovely bronze skin on their first date—and the first time they had sex. She loved that smell.

This one belonged to someone else entirely.

In the kitchen, the evidence of  
( _an intruder_ )  
a visitor became even more apparent and troubling. The shattered globe of a wine glass lay in fanglike shards at the bottom of the sink, briefly reminding Amanda of the creepy clown's teeth from the movie _It_.

 _We all float down here, Mandy_ , she thought, and shuddered. _We float and scratch Crazy 8's. When you're down here, you'll scratch too._

Forcing away the image and the demonic Pennywise voice, she concentrated on making sense of the wreckage in the sink. Olivia rarely left messes sitting out overnight, and never ones that could pose a danger to curious, adventuresome children. The jagged stem of the glass stood erect in the basin, practically begging for an eye to gouge out or a throat to puncture.

A second glass, intact and coated by a hazy red film, loitered at the sink ledge as if it hadn't yet summoned the courage to dive in after its companion. There was lipstick on the brim—also not Olivia's shade. Too crimson.

Amanda caught herself wondering how much wine her fiancée and Alexandra Cabot had consumed ( _and what occurred after_ , her mind supplied, unbidden), but she tamped down on the jealousy and carefully gathered a handful of lethal-looking glass into her palm. She didn't know for certain that Alex was the mystery guest—although, the perfume and the lipstick were undeniably Cabotlike, so feminine and fine—and even if she had been, that didn't mean anything happened. And if it did, Amanda had brought it on herself. She deserved whatever punishment Olivia saw fit to give.

Still, when she capsized the broken crystal into the bin under the sink, she was alarmed by the presence of two empty wine bottles, cushioned on a bed of crumpled paper towels and takeout containers. The Merlot she understood; that bottle had maybe three or four (albeit very large) servings left when she'd stormed out of the apartment earlier. But the Nero d'Avola had been untouched, recumbent on the scalloped rack above the fridge and waiting for a special occasion—emergency?—like those lifeboats that lined the deck of the Titanic. Iceberg straight ahead, Captain. SOS.

Two women polishing off a whole bottle of wine (and part of another) between them wasn't unheard of. Olivia and Amanda had done it in the past. They also got quite soused in the process, and neither of them were on antidepressants at the time. Worrying felt hypocritical, considering Amanda had spent the evening mixing whiskey and painkillers, but it was different for Olivia. She was more susceptible, more fragile in some ways. Amanda had never been force-fed pills and alcohol for days on end, nor had she been given an almost lethal dose of GHB. And shitty childhood or not, she'd never watched her mother drink away every ounce of the love she so desperately craved.

Those experiences seemed to have altered Olivia's alcohol and drug tolerance, and not in a good way. Whereas drinking made Amanda rowdy and loose, it made Olivia somber and quiet. More often than not it put her to sleep, and combined with the Zoloft, it had a near sedative effect. That night on the couch when Amanda couldn't rouse her without shaking her roughly by the shoulders and practically shouting her name was, for lack of a better term, a wake-up call for both of them. Or so Amanda had believed, until gazing down at the pair of empty bottles.

She blamed herself for that, too. If she'd been at home where she belonged, instead of out throwing away her sobriety for a few hundred dollars—three-fifty, to be exact—Olivia probably wouldn't have imbibed as heavily.

Twisting the other glass beneath the running faucet, Amanda quickly rinsed out the bowl and upended it in the dishwasher, noting two more wine glasses on the top rack. Had those been there before, or had Olivia thrown a party after she left? She couldn't remember about the glasses, and she doubted the validity of the latter option. Either way, she hurried through hosing any remaining splinters down the drain, then headed for the hallway.

Her heartbeat kicked up a notch when she saw the red sweater. Pooled on the beige carpet between bed and bath, it resembled a small, red lagoon between sandy shores—or a puddle of blood. She went to it instinctively, snatched it up, took a sharp whiff. She recognized it by sight and touch alone, but a familiar scent clung to the inside-out knit, especially around the long, wilted collar: Olivia.

 _You can wear a turtleneck_ , Amanda had told her. _Your tits look amazing in those stretchy ones._

God, she'd been callous. She knew Olivia wasn't fond of turtlenecks anymore, that the collars always ended up stretched out from the constant plucking, tugging, and flapping, but she had only been concerned with her own desires in the moment. And Olivia had submitted to them, or at least tried to. The sweater smelled strongly of sweat and red wine.

It was a bouquet Amanda associated with sex. Salty-sweet and carnal. _Sins of the flesh_ , she thought inexplicably, unable to recall where she'd heard such a thing. Biblical, if she wasn't mistaken; although it might just as easily have been the title of a porno. Introducing Maggie Bends and Lexi Cavort in _Sins of the Flesh: Mandy's Coming_.

Before her imagination could run away with her even more than it already had, she steepled her fingers against the bedroom door and pushed. Normally, Olivia liked it closed all the way—Amanda suspected the sliver of darkness, of unknown, beyond the cracked door was to blame. Tonight it sighed open at just a touch, the hall light slicing through the pitch-black bedroom with razor precision. From inside, a gentle, questioning _woof_ alerted Amanda to Frannie's presence and would have made her laugh any other time. It sounded like a human imitating a dog.

She did allow herself a relieved chuckle when she peered around the corner and saw that her soon-to-be wife was indeed in bed with a long-haired blonde: Gigi the golden retriever rested alongside Olivia, occupying the spot usually reserved for Amanda. The service dog was finally getting to live out her dream of having Favorite Mom all to herself, without Other Mom in the way. She lifted her head from the pillow and rested it on Olivia's shoulder, vigilant as ever as she watched Amanda tiptoe over to the bedside lamp. The ceiling fixture would be too bright, and while Amanda hoped to accidentally wake Olivia on purpose, she wanted to do it carefully, tenderly. Sleep was a vulnerable and volatile place for her captain.

She clicked on the dim little lamp, which gave off more of a tepid glow than actual light, and quietly shed her coat and boots beside the bed, Olivia's sweater on top. Frannie stopped by for a sniff and a pat on the rump on her way out of the room, presumably to get a drink from the bowl in the kitchen (hopefully not the one in the bathroom). Well. Amanda sure felt loved.

For a moment, she considered stripping down fully and sliding in behind Olivia. Conversation would keep until morning and they could both do with some rest. But she doubted her ability to sleep right then, no matter how hard she tried. She was too sore and exhausted, too buzzed from her extracurriculars and the revelations Daphne inspired, to rest comfortably. There were things she needed to get off her chest before she came down from her pink cloud, the cumulus formed by coffee, Jim Beam, and a renewed determination never to gamble again.

With slow, measured movements, she took a seat next to Olivia on the edge of the mattress. The captain was curled onto her side in a defensive posture, as if she'd just been kicked in the stomach, her face obscured by an ink spill of dark hair. She had mashed the covers down around her ankles at some point, probably overheated beneath the layers—although not of clothing. Her only attire was a black bra and the leggings she wouldn't wear unless the shirt (or sweater) reached the top of her thighs. She hated the little paunch accentuated by tight waistbands, but Amanda thought it was adorable.

Unusual for Olivia to be sleeping in leggings, though. Even more unusual for her to go to bed in a bra. Frowning, Amanda brushed the hair back from Olivia's face and gasped at what she found. Inches below the jawline on that side, a smear of bruises, like dirty fingerprints clouding a windowpane, wrapped around the woman's neck, disappearing into the crevice between her chin and the opposite shoulder. It looked as though she'd been jerked up short by a noose, or maybe just a choke collar for disobedient dogs.

The realization that she was responsible for those marks settled over Amanda, heavy as death by pressing, that ancient form of torture used on supposed witches and other sinners (of the flesh). She clamped a hand to her mouth, covering the strangled noise she made low in her throat. She hadn't sobbed in so long, she'd forgotten what it felt like, how pitiful it sounded, how much she hated doing it.

"Oh, Liv baby, I'm so sorry," she said wetly, voice clogged by the tears and her palm. The latter she moved aside, leaning down to nuzzle into Olivia's hair and press a warm, apologetic kiss to her cheek. She expected the captain to stir then—Olivia usually woke at the slightest shift of air in the room, the slightest squeak of a floorboard or a bed frame—to enfold her in a strong, forgiving embrace, but it never came.

For the second time since arriving home, Amanda felt something was wrong. All at once, she noticed that Olivia's hair, soft and flowery when they  
( _hatefucked_ )  
had sex earlier that evening, now was coarse and briny. It got that way after especially intense workouts or night terrors, both of which left Olivia drenched in perspiration. But neither activity accounted for the smell of vomit that also lingered among the dark strands, charcoal-colored in the frail lamplight.

Amanda drew back abruptly, more startled than disgusted. She liked the scent of Olivia's sweat—got turned on by it, even—and she hadn't been grossed out by puke since college, when she'd done her fair share of it and had to analyze someone else's for a forensic toxicology midterm. But Olivia was fastidious about her hygiene and seldom went to bed smelling anything less than fresh. Just like she didn't sleep in a bra or leggings.

Something was very wrong. As if confirming that deduction, Amanda spotted Olivia's iPhone across the room, facedown on the carpet like a fallen soldier, its plastic and silicone armor split asunder. A gouge in the otherwise spotless moulding told Amanda everything she needed to know. Like the complimentary pretzels and not-so-complimentary booze she'd hurled in college, she'd thrown her fair share of cell phones as well. She thought of Olivia tossing the earrings to her during their argument, and that lightning bolt of anger when she wanted to throw them back.

Her gaze flickered over to the dresser, at its feet a blotch of wine on the carpet like a blood clot. (Once it hit your arteries, you could kiss your sorry ass goodbye.) Rebounding frantically, her eyes fell upon the nightstand by the bed, where Olivia's journal lay open, an ink pen in the gutter between pages. A single word was written at the top of the paper, a name cried out to the canyon of blank lines below:

_Amanda,_

On her forearm, Amanda's name blazed as if the tattoo were being re-etched into her skin. Probably the hot surge of adrenaline, she thought, unaware that she was thinking at all. Time had slowed to a crawl, and she saw the whole room thrown into bas-relief around her, each detail intricately carved, significant: the wine stain she'd caused by pinning Olivia against the dresser, loosing the deadly clot that had turned into a full-blown embolism; the phone whose vital signs weren't looking too promising either, and the little chip in the baseboard like a cleft lip; Gigi, sitting up fully on the bed now, gazing anxiously from one human to the other; Olivia's engagement ring, still on her finger, that bastard watch not far below ( _A little pretty for my city girl_ ); Amanda's own name, written in Olivia's hand, but unsteadily, with nothing after it—an interrupted thought, an accusation. (A goodbye?)

She thought about the glass in the sink, which she hadn't broken; the sleeping woman before her, which she had. How much wine did Olivia consume to be so drunk she broke a glass and threw a phone? Amanda couldn't stop glancing around the room, until she finally realized she was searching not for answers but for a pill bottle. Capless, empty, dropped somewhere among the bedding or off the edge of the mattress.

 _She could've taken them in the bathroom_ , Amanda reasoned, not finding what she was looking for. That would be like Olivia—putting the bottle back into the medicine cabinet, not wanting to chance the dogs or the kids getting a hold of any stray pills. Thinking of others, even when she was about to . . .

Pills or not, the unfinished note scared Amanda the most. She could barely pry her eyes off it—that name, angled at her like a finger pointing blame—as she barked out, "Liv?" And again, louder, when she got no reply, not even a grumpy groan or a twitching eyelid: "Liv, wake up."

Not a sigh, nor that feeble sound she made sometimes, like a mewing kitten. (It would embarrass her to know she did that. Occasionally Amanda felt guilty for being so fond of it. What was it Olivia had said? _Sometimes I think you like me a little broken._ ) The captain hadn't moved a muscle since Amanda sat down beside her. Gigi was whining.

" _Liv_. 'Livia." Amanda clambered to her knees on the mattress and rolled Olivia onto her back, throwing an arm out to block Gigi as the dog tried to nose between them. "Get," she said in the sternest tone she'd ever had to use on the golden. When Gigi persisted, she shoved the dog back and braced on hands and knees above Olivia's lifeless form.

"Don't do this to me, Liv," she heard herself say, and for a moment she couldn't tell if it was out loud or just a memory. But then, definitely out loud and definitely in the present: "Not again."

She felt for a pulse, found it quickly—good, strong. The breathing was harder to detect in such low light, with Gigi panting and pawing at the comforter. If Olivia's chest had moved at all in the past few minutes, Amanda didn't remember seeing it. She dipped in closer, turning a cheek to Olivia's faintly parted lips, hovering there like a dragonfly over still waters ( _He leadeth me beside_ —) thirsting, praying.

"Come on, baby, take a breath. Please."

And she did. Shallow and stunted, but a breath nonetheless.

Upon release, it grazed Amanda's cheek so lightly, she wasn't sure she'd actually felt it. She did smell it. More wine and vomit. But it was better than the alternative, and Amanda let out a choked breath of her own, unaware she had even been holding it in.

"Oh God, oh shit," she gasped, sitting back on her heels, needing something solid beneath her, because it felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the whole goddamn world. "Oh, thank God." Olivia's eyes were struggling open, lids gummy with sleep. They rolled around uselessly behind her fluttering lashes, showing glimpses of stark white that reminded Amanda of movies about demon possession. She didn't care if Olivia suddenly sat up, projectile vomited pea soup, and levitated above the bed—as long as she was alive.

But Olivia could barely pry herself from sleep, let alone levitate. She looked like she was slogging through a waist-high swamp just to reach consciousness, and she had started to sink under, the wet muck of dreams sucking her back down. Amanda took her by the shoulders for a tentative shake. "Liv, wake up."

Another, more insistent. "Hey. Come on. Up and at 'em."

And when that didn't work, Amanda bent forward and shook hard, lolling her fiancée's dark head on the pillow. "Olivia, you're scaring me, darlin'. Can you—"

Without warning, Olivia's eyes shot wide, her body whiplashing against the mattress when she saw Amanda looming above, hands clamped on her shoulders. "No! Get off me," she cried in a weak, sandpaper voice, as if she'd already been screaming for hours. Then, to Amanda's horror, the bold, fearless woman she loved so desperately crumpled into a ball on her side, weeping and hiding behind her hands. "Hurts. No more, please."

"Liv, it's me. It's 'Manda." And though she knew better, knew that it was best to give the captain space when she relived one of her traumas (Was this Lewis? He had hurt her the most, been with her the longest. That "no more" would haunt Amanda for the rest of—), her instincts to comfort and protect Olivia were stronger.

"He's not here, baby. C'mere and let me hold—"

As she tried to gather Olivia to her, something hard and tapered—an elbow, she realized too late—flew square into her face. No, her lower lip, more precisely. She felt the lip split against her bottom teeth, pain blooming there, blood blooming in her mouth. "Aw, fuggin' hell," she groaned, pressing her tongue to the gash on the inside, fingertips to the out. She was going to look like a punching bag tomorrow; she was going to look like her mother.

Somehow that thought bolstered her more than any other, and she went on soothing Olivia with renewed tenderness as she waited for the nightmare to pass.

**. . .**


	30. Chapter 29: And Full of Terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Update Friday! Are we ready for some more angst, hm? I actually forgot how much of it there was in the next few chapters. Sorry 'bout that, there's just a lot to deal with in the aftermath of that fight. Originally the next chapter was going to be the beginning of part four, and I might still leave it that way, but I am going to hold off on posting the cover art for it, because it occurred to me that the cover is a spoiler. A pretty big one. And I'm not ready for that yet. So, I'll probably hold off on the unveiling until chapter 34ish. Just FYI. Putting a **TW** on this chapter for rape and PTSD **/TW**. See you Monday.

## CHAPTER 29: And Full of Terrors

**. . .**

" _Just a little sneaky-peak. I can see what an impatient girl you are."_

_He crawls off of her and zips his fly, grinning down at the bed, at the woman on it. At Olivia. He's taunting her again, but that's nothing new. How do you know Lewis is taunting? His lips are moving. Isn't that the joke?_

_Or is it: How do you know William Lewis just raped you? You're spread-eagle on your bed, drugged to the gills, and it hurts between your legs._

_Cue the laugh track._

(He did _not_ rape me. I don't care if we made it to the 96 hour mark and the evidence could have washed away in my urine, he did _not_ rape)

_Well, then he did everything but. She was unconscious for some of it, maybe even most of it—she doesn't remember, for instance, how they got from the living room to her bedroom—but the wire coat hanger had been a real eye-opener. That's also when she realized her pants were down. Are still down._

_She was too afraid of where he would put the hanger next to close her eyes again. But he lost interest in the sinuous metal question mark—will he, won't he?—after the first burn._ I'll show you what real steel feels like, Detective. _And then he was rubbing it against her: one minute crushing it into her clitoris until she groaned (he liked that); the next, teasing like a lover until she whined, her body rigor mortis stiff as she fought with all her strength not to react (he liked that more)._

_Her body was a traitor. Is. He's smiling at her breasts. From this angle, they look mountainous inside the stretchy black top, the peaks rock-hard from her exertions. His exertions, he'll argue, and she can't deny that his touch is responsible. Every sound that comes out of her, every scent that comes off of her, he conducts with his own two hands and cock. A regular maestro._

" _So sweet," he says, and she can hear in his voice that he's sincere. That's the sickest part. He truly believes the orgasm was_

(not an orgasm sex is for orgasms rape is not)

 _Sex. He thinks they just did it like two overzealous teenagers on a first date, fumbling in the backseat, hot and sticky. No one ever talks about the part where the boy brands the girl with a coat hanger, bites her breasts so hard his teeth practically slice through two layers of fabric, tells her she has a pornstar pussy ("but tasteful"), coasts his dick between her cheeks and asks her thoughts on anal._ You're gonna love it by the time I'm done with you.

" _I'm glad it was good for you, darlin'."_

(He never called me that, it was _darling_. Hard "G" like his hard)

" _Mind if I smoke?" He flashes the cigarette at her as if she can answer, shrugs when she doesn't, lights the tip. At first she thinks he's conjured fire with his bare hands, but then he waves out the match, struck by a thumbnail. Nifty trick, maybe he'll teach it to her, along with the anal. "Nothing like a Lucky Strike after a little slap and tickle, don't you agree?"_

_She blinks at him over the duct tape, feeling slow and stupid. He's receding in her vision, tunneled into a pinprick of smoldering light. The light darts closer, grabs her by the hair, and shakes till her brain rattles._

" _No sleep, Livvy. Not until I say so." He sprinkles ashes onto her forehead like a priest on Ash Wednesday. He is her spiritual guide now, she supposes: Father Lewis. The man who decides if she lives or dies. The man who can take her to Heaven or Hell._

" _And I want you to enjoy a smoke with me." He brings the tip too close, chuckling when she goes cross-eyed. Pulls it back and speaks conversationally as he observes her, pants and underwear around her ankles. He hasn't even taken her belt out of the loops. "You ever had a cigarette? Nah, I bet you're too well-behaved for that. Too good. Wanna try mine? I won't tell."_

_Sleep. She wants sleep and for this to be over. In whatever capacity that might entail._

" _Come on,  
_ (—baby, take a breath. Please.)  
 _just gotta put it to your lips and suck," he goads, offering the cigarette to her by the wrong end, the hot, peppery tip. "Like they say in the movie."_

It's "just put your lips together and blow," you fucking dumbass piece of shit _, she wants to say, but can't: the tape and the way he's looking at her, like he's sizing her up for a skimpy swimsuit or a body bag. She's afraid to find out which lips he's talking about._

 _As if he's reading her mind—she's pretty sure he can actually do that—he glides his hand up the inside of her thigh until he reaches wet. His or hers, she can't remember._ His and Hers, just like those matching towels for married couples _, she thinks, losing focus. Whatever he's got her on, the thoughts and memories slip through her brain like sand through a sieve. She probably won't remember any of this later. It terrifies and consoles her._

_He airplanes the cigarette towards her face again, as his other hand strokes her. "Uh-uh. Open your eyes," he demands, but she refuses. Won't give him the satisfaction. It's pitifully stubborn and childish, but it's all she has left._

" _I said  
_ (—wake up)  
 _you little tease." His hand disappears from between her legs, and she thinks briefly, stupidly that she's won. Then he's on top of her, pawing her breasts, twisting them until she whimpers behind the duct tape._

(Up and at 'em.)

 _It does the trick. Her eyes spring open like faulty window shades  
_ (—you're scaring me)  
 _just in time to see him tweak the cigarette from his lips and sink it into the top of her left breast. Her shirt solders with her flesh as he grinds in the tip, scorching through at least a layer or two of skin. It's like a stake driven into her heart. A flaming torch._

_The pain is too big for screaming. She sucks a blast of air in through her nostrils, her body begins to writhe_

Then he had her by the shoulders, saying her name and feeding her lies. He told her that Amanda was there to protect her, to hold her. But Amanda had left her and wasn't coming back. That old saw about loving someone and letting them go was a crock of shit. They never returned to you.

He grabbed for her now, calling her "baby," the same way Amanda did. She'd gotten a lot of "babe" (Cassidy) and "honey" (Tucker) in past relationships—even a " _ma chérie_ " or deux, courtesy of David Haden—but Amanda was the only person who had ever loved her enough to consider her their baby. Her own mother hadn't even done that much. God, how she longed for Amanda as she lay there, curled up like a fetus, a helpless, formless baby.

When he tried to pull her in, guiding her towards the dirty-ashtray, drunken-mother stink of tobacco and vodka at his chest, Olivia slung her elbow backwards and felt it crack against his teeth. Good, she hoped it hurt. Pain jolted her own forearm, and she cupped a palm to that elbow, the other hand over her ear. She couldn't listen to him swearing at her anymore. Swearing meant anger; he hurt her much worse when he was angry.

 _Please, God, don't let him climb on top of me again_ , she prayed silently. _Don't let him do those things . . ._

The thought went unfinished, evaporating as quickly as the dream she had already forgotten. By now, she'd learned to let go when she could, to accept that small blessing of oblivion. Her mind: an oubliette. From the French _oublier_ —to forget.

Still got it, Ma.

Several moments ticked past, the fog gradually lifting from Olivia's oubliette brain, before she realized that the hand against her bare back wasn't hurting her. In fact, it seemed to be calming her with slow, circular strokes, the same way Amanda did it. She felt a twinge of hope that was almost painful, but didn't dare roll over to look. Playing possum, just as she used to when her mother came into her room at night—drunk, of course—either weepy and apologetic or spoiling for a fight.

"Liv," drawled a soft voice behind her. Not her mother, not Lewis. But the smell . . .

"Baby, it's me. Can you look at me?" The hand swept a lock of hair behind Olivia's shoulder, pressing to her skin like a starfish when she shivered. "I'm sorry I scared you. I couldn't get you to wake up, and when I saw the note and the broken glass, I thought . . . "

And just like that, the previous night came flooding back to her, or at least trickling in heavy, steady droplets. There had been wine—a lot of it; she tasted it fuzzy in her mouth, felt it fuzzy in her brain. Had she drunk two full bottles? No, just part of the one, and another glass (or two?) of the other. That was how she broke the glass, dumping the Nero d'Avola. After Alex and that kiss. After Amanda and that fight.

She vaguely recalled taking out her Moleskine notebook, too upset for sleep in the aftermath of the wine purge and her tantrum with the cell phone. But the harder she tried to write down her feelings, the harder she cried at the sight of Amanda's name alone on the page—and the comma hemming it in. ( _If not me, who's it gonna be, Liv?_ ) She had cast the journal onto the bedside table and buried her face in Gigi's fur to cry, presumably until she fell asleep.

It occurred to her that she didn't even know if it was night or day, and she twisted abruptly to peer at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 2:47 AM. She hadn't even been out long enough to be properly hungover, just suspended in the hazy interim post-intoxication, where everything looked muted and a little off-center.

Even Amanda, seated on the edge of the bed, looked misshapen and distant, almost as if she were wearing a mask. Olivia squinted, attempting to bring the blonde's face into focus and tilting her head in confusion when she finally did.

Maybe it was a trick of light and shadow coming from the bedside lamp, more decorative than illuminative, but Amanda's left eyelid appeared inflated, lumpish, the way Jesse's did that time she got stung by the bee. The detective's lip, also a bit bee-stung, had a dark line down the middle, which she was worrying with the tip of her tongue. She withdrew her tongue quickly, tucked in the lip when Olivia stared and asked, "What happened to you? Your face . . . "

This time, rather than a faucet-drip epiphany, reality toppled down onto her like an avalanche of bricks. She rolled over, sat up ramrod straight, and peered closely at Amanda's features. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth with a sharp cry. It was the sound that preceded a head-on collision or watching your child run into a busy street. Her elbow throbbed. "Oh my God, did I do that to you? Oh God, Amanda, did I hit you in my sleep?"

 _Again_ , she reminded herself silently. _Hit you in my sleep_ again.

Nearly a year had gone by since that night in the Catskills when she'd bloodied Amanda's nose during a night terror, and though what transpired afterwards had completely overshadowed that assault—however accidental—Olivia still harbored the guilt. The fear it might happen again. And now it had. She'd beaten her fiancée without any awareness of what she was doing.

She thought of the metal rod; how she sometimes felt it in her hands, like the phantom of a severed limb, though she didn't remember holding it, wielding it. She thought about the times, after Sealview, after Harris, when she'd lost control and pulled her weapon on innocent civilians, her finger just a twitch away from ending a life.

Jesus Christ, she hadn't made any progress at all, had she? And now she was flirting with a drinking problem to boot. No wonder Amanda had walked out on her. She would have been better off to stay gone.

"Shit. No. Liv, listen here. You didn't do this." Amanda wreathed her face with a swish of the hand, shook her head. She reached for Olivia's wrist, to tug her hand down, and caught her by the watch instead. Averting her eyes, she slid her grip farther down Olivia's arm and held it lightly. "I— I got into a fight. Some asshole punched me. But I punched him first, so. This ain't on you, okay? None of it."

"What?" Olivia asked, her gasp a few seconds behind the explanation as she struggled to comprehend it. She was still trying to comprehend that Amanda was there at all.

Her instincts were to pull her fiancée close, to cup Amanda's battered face in her hands, but even at this proximity, she could smell the cigarettes and alcohol wafting from the lank blonde hair, the lank shirt and jeans. It froze her. "Someone hit you? Were you in a bar?"

Now it was Amanda's turn to freeze, a strange, unreadable half-expression caught on her face, like the View-Master reels from childhood when they got stuck between stereoscopic images, requiring an extra pull of the lever to lock them in place. A shake of her fair head seemed to do the trick and the full picture came into focus: Amanda was preparing to lie.

"Not a bar," she said, and opened her mouth several times, only to close it back up without a sound. Finally, shakily: "But I went someplace I shouldn'ta. I— I fucked up, Liv. Hey, are you— babe, you're shiverin'. Come here."

That had been more honesty than Olivia was expecting, and it caught her off guard, along with the sudden change of subject. She was indeed quaking, she saw with a perfunctory glance down at her shirtless torso. (How she hated that stubborn little paunch. No amount of crunches seemed capable of flattening it these days.)

When she looked back up, Amanda was scooting towards her, arms spread, accompanied by the smoky, ethanol scent that burned in Olivia's nostrils like a sinus infection, weighed down her lungs like a heavy blanket. She found it difficult to take a deep breath, and despite wanting Amanda's arms around her more than just about anything, she shrank from their approach. Her back met with a hot, solid wall of fur, and she swiveled an arm behind her, holding tight to Gigi.

The look on Amanda's face was pure agony, made even worse by the hangdog droop of her damaged eyelid. Her retreat wasn't physical, but she seemed to recede all the same and her hands flopped to the bed, useless as discarded gloves. "Sorry," she muttered, and licked her bottom lip clean of a fresh bead of blood. She winced, her downcast gaze fixed on the comforter. "I don't blame ya for not wantin' me to touch you."

Momentarily, Olivia couldn't remember why Amanda would think such a thing. Then she glanced at the dresser, imagined she felt the hickeys like a row of basalt hot stones on her skin. It had been inappropriate, unquestionably. It had frightened and infuriated her, if she was being totally honest, and it awoke some things within her that she didn't want to know existed. And yet. She couldn't summon any of her previous anger, just a sad, hollow feeling and a yearning to know that Amanda still loved her. Would always love her.

"It's not that," she said, covering her mouth and nose this time. Her own breath smelled atrocious behind her cupped palm and she was almost certain her hair was encrusted with vomit, but those odors didn't produce the same visceral reaction she had to the others. "Were you smoking? And drinking vodka? I'm sorry, I just . . . " She gestured vaguely to Amanda's clothing. "Can't breathe."

"Fuck." Amanda shot an accusatory glance at her sleeve, sniffed it like she was checking her deodorant, grimaced. "Aw, hell. I'm sorry, darlin'. I didn't even think. Here, lemme . . ." And without finishing the offer, she began tugging off her boots with both hands, nearly launching them over either shoulder when they came loose of her feet. (Amanda was slightly inebriated herself, Olivia realized.) She let them fall heavily to the floor instead, and started on her pants.

Her movements were stiff, but she got the jeans undone and shucked them from her legs, wincing and kicking. The denim, softened by wear and wash, hunkered inside out on the carpet like a cowering dog. Ever impatient, she undid the uppermost buttons of her Oxford, then tugged it over her head without completing the bottom half. She poured the shirt on top of the jeans and punted both aside, well out of smelling range. From the nightstand, she grabbed one of Olivia's spare elastics and raked her hair into a haylike pile atop her head.

"There. That a little better?" she asked breathlessly, seated across from Olivia in the same white cotton bra and panties that she'd worn earlier. They almost looked too big for her, compared to the scant undergarments she typically wore, but somehow these were oddly sweet. Innocent, even.

A bit boggled by the whirlwind strip down, Olivia nodded absently, her eyes going to Amanda's torso and the patch of gauze taped to it. She'd been the one who changed her fiancée's bandages, up until about a week ago, when Amanda declared she could do it herself. This one was acceptable, although not as neat as Olivia's handiwork. What made her gasp, though, was not the detective's lack of first aid aesthetics, but the glowing pink aura that surrounded the bandage like a widening danger zone on a nuclear explosion map. The wound had been seeping, a grease-colored stain woven into the gauze.

"Jesus. Amanda." Olivia went to her then, unable to hold back any longer. Not when Amanda was hurting. The sear of tobacco was fainter now, the slap of vodka gone completely, and she pushed past the fear and prickling skin triggered by the former to cradle the blonde's cheek in hand. It was ice cold. So were her shoulder, her arm, her hip and thigh. "Oh my God, you're freezing. Oh, sweetheart. Did you get hit in the stomach, too?"

Despite the chill that seemed to grip her from head to foot, Amanda visibly warmed to the touch. She jerked as though it was a shock to the system when Olivia took the hand away and felt around in the covers until she excavated a wadded throw from the foot of the bed. "What?" Amanda asked, glancing down at her inflamed abdomen. "Oh. No, just the eye. I think that's from . . . overdoin' it. Too much walking and stuff, I mean."

The last part was added hastily, after Olivia paused in wrapping the blanket around Amanda's shoulders like a cape. That ashtray odor wafted up from inside the fleece folds, and Olivia had to  
( _—pick one. Burn her up here or down there? Your choice, Detective._ )  
turn her face aside for a moment and catch her breath. She almost gagged.

She'd been around cigarettes and smokers many times AL—After Lewis—and while it always bothered her, she hadn't been this affected by it since a suspect's father lit up in his living room during one of her first cases back on the job. The minute she exited the property, she'd puked in his hydrangeas. Why it should be such a gut-punch again now, she couldn't say. Probably all the wine ( _Don't forget the pills, Detective_ ) and the emotional upheaval of the past week, or several, mixed with seeing her fiancée looking like one of the DV corpses they fished from the Hudson on the regular.

Maybe she could say.

"I think we should go to the ER and get that looked at. Make sure it's not infected or something." Olivia tipped her head at the wound, then indicated Amanda's swollen eye with another brief nod, finding it hard to gaze at for too long. It made her want to cry; it made her want to find the man who dared lay a finger on her fiancée and make _him_ cry. "And you need your eye checked. He might've damaged the socket or your cheek  
or—"

Amanda caught at Olivia's hand as the thumb grazed across her uninjured cheekbone, so delicate and pale it reminded Olivia of eggshell. "I'm okay, darlin'. Really. Sore as hell, but I'll live. I just need some Tylenol and a bag of frozen peas."

"To eat?" Olivia asked, and then silently cursed her muzzy head when she realized what Amanda meant. She sounded like someone who had never been hit in the face before. "Oh. To put on your eye."

"Yeah." The corner of Amanda's mouth edged up in a vague smile. She folded Olivia's fingers over her own hand, but didn't kiss the backs as she normally would. "Daph tried to get me to ask for a frozen steak. Told her I don't even spend thirty bucks on makeup, so why would I pay it for a hunk of meat to stick on my face?"

"You were with Daphne?" Olivia heard the edge in her own voice and still couldn't stop herself in time. She had no right to be jealous of Amanda seeking out a friend after such a bad blow-up; she'd done exactly the same thing with Alex. But she had _wanted_ Amanda, not an old (ex?) friend. It hurt to think her fiancée might have been confiding in someone else when, most of the time, Olivia could barely get two words out of her about how she was feeling.

Amanda winced slightly, though it was unclear whether she had reacted to the question or her injuries. She reached for Olivia's other hand, the one wearing the engagement ring, and held both in hers, as if they were already exchanging vows. "Yeah, I, uh . . . I called her," she said hesitantly, fiddling with the ring. "I's feelin' really shitty about— about what happened. I'm sorry, I know I shoulda called you instead . . . "

The blonde's gaze drifted over to the corner, to the debris of Olivia's cell phone. "Wish I had. It wasn't fair to leave you hangin' like that, not knowing . . . I just— I thought I needed space or something, or that maybe you did? I dunno. I don't know what I was thinking, to be honest. I'm so sorry, Liv."

There was a desperation to the words that took Olivia by surprise, easing some of the sting of confirmation—Amanda _had_ been aware Olivia was calling, had chosen Daphne over her—and intensifying the ache in her chest. She knew then, right or wrong, for better or for worse, she would forgive Amanda anything.

Lindstrom would call it fawning, a term for the fourth trauma response (the rest: fight, the one Olivia preferred believing she relied on; flight, the one she actually relied on; and freeze, the one that led to most of her traumas in the first place), and a term which she despised. As if she were some weak baby deer or a groveling sycophant. He had accused her of it many times before, during discussions about her relationships—platonic and romantic.

According to the good doctor, Olivia manifested the behavior most notably by placing others' needs ahead of her own, blaming herself for and excusing others' actions, her difficulty saying no to those she cared about, and the guilt that inevitably followed when she allowed herself to be angry. Made sense. It explained why she had put up with Elliot's toxic masculinity and violent temper for so long—although, Lindstrom had an altogether different diagnosis for that one—and why she'd pursued Brian Cassidy, then stayed with him well past the expiration date, even after listening to him moan his way through a ten minute blowjob from a prostitute.

 _He might as well get it somewhere_ , she'd reasoned, while the bile crept up the back of her throat. She repeated the thought to Dr. Lindstrom later, adding, "Because he sure as hell isn't getting it from me." Of course, then the doctor had wanted to talk about her intimacy issues and strong aversion to oral sex. But that was a whole other therapy session in itself.

The "fawning"—she always thought of it in quotation marks, as if that could prevent her from doing it—even extended to her children. "They love you unconditionally, Olivia," Lindstrom had assured her, more recently than she cared to admit. "That isn't going to stop if you take away video game privileges or send them to their rooms. You can even lose your temper sometimes, and guess what? They will still love you."

Olivia had her doubts about that one, but she kept them to herself. Just as she wouldn't admit her fear that if she didn't fawn, didn't give in, she would lose Amanda. That she could work on later. She'd made do with her neurosis for the past fifty-two years; one more night wasn't going to hurt. Another night without Amanda most certainly would.

"It's okay," Olivia said, pressing the detective's hands flat together and chafing the backs with her palms. They were warmer now, but Amanda still looked cold, huddled beneath the pearl-colored throw. Or perhaps Olivia was projecting, sitting there shirtless and chilled to the bone. Gigi's body heat helped, but the dog had curled up behind her, leaving her back exposed to the elements of the bedroom—a cold place this evening. "It's okay."

Why couldn't she think of anything else to say?

"No, it ain't," Amanda supplied. She extended her arm—and with it, a cigarette-scented breeze—offering an invitation underneath the blanket, but snapped the flap closed at the sight of Olivia's queasy expression. "I acted like an asshole. A mean, abusive asshole. All that stupid— sorry, all that dumb shit I said . . . I didn't mean any of it. I was just mad. Lately I've just been so . . . _mad_."

"At me?" Olivia asked, her voice so small she barely recognized it. She cleared her throat to try again, but the words evaporated before they reached her lips.

Amanda winced again, and this time it was definitely because of the question. She shook her head hard, the knot of hair on top whipping back and forth. "No, darlin'. Not at you. Well, at first I thought I was, but then Daph— I mean, I figured out some things. Things I oughta tell ya." She swallowed audibly, tugged at her bottom lip, cringed as it split wider, trickling blood onto her chin. "Ow, damn. Ain't gonna be very good at it, I can promise you that. And I should probably clean up first. This lip, at least."

The prospect of Amanda willingly sharing her feelings was too intriguing to pass up. Olivia had her own theories about the detective's behavior—PTSD from being stabbed and shot, all within the same year; childhood trauma rearing its ugly head, in the form of Beth Anne; the anxiety and depression that accompanied being cooped up at home, recovering, wondering if you could still do your job when you finally got back to it; and then there was the possibility that she simply just didn't want to marry Olivia after all . . . .

But she wanted to hear Amanda's take, not her own armchair-psychiatrist diagnoses, cooked up by her own PTSD and Merlot-soaked brain, after the worst fight she'd ever had with anyone outside of her own damn mother.

"Let me help?" she asked hesitantly, prepared to retract the offer if it annoyed Amanda. The detective's determination not to be coddled had returned in full force about a week into her recovery, but it was especially pronounced since Christmas.

"You sure?" Amanda peered down into the dark tent of blanket around her and sniffed. "I know I stink. Don't want it to bother ya."

"It's okay," Olivia heard herself say yet again. She bit her tongue to keep from repeating her other favorite adage— _I'm fine_ —as a follow-up. She was half dressed, half drunk, and on her way to a full migraine. It had just occurred to her that she smelled like her mother: boozy, vomitous, sweat-through as a whorehouse bedsheet. Probably looked like her too, bleary-eyed and bloated. (At least there was _some_ family resemblance.)

She was definitely not fine.

"I can handle it." She sat up straighter, shoulders back, and met Amanda's uncertain gaze without wavering. Expecting to be turned down flat, she only blinked at the hand that was extended from inside the blanket at first. The knuckles were bruised, the fingers slightly inflated, as if retaining water. Olivia took it gingerly at the palm and allowed Amanda to help her step down from the bed like she was exiting a carriage.

It felt strange and a bit staged, as if they were actors in a play. The dramatic story of a lesbian couple whose relationship was about to implode, due to severe psychological damage and lack of communication. A smash hit, a shoo-in at the Tonys. But Olivia held on, not wanting to lose the contact, awkward though it may be.

She wasn't as off-balance as she'd feared, the room didn't tilt or spin around her; still, she let Amanda guide her to the door and help her on with the robe that hung there. The silken fabric was cool against her skin, and she shivered, tucking it around herself. She shivered a second time when Amanda swept the hair from under her collar, grazing the length of her neck with a soft, apologetic touch.

"Liv, I . . . "

Olivia nodded, catching Amanda lightly by the hand again. "Let's go take care of that lip."

**. . .**


	31. Chapter 30: Hand to God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I decided to push part four back a few more chapters, along with the cover art. It really changes nothing about the story, just means part three is a little longer than the others. And that the cover has to wait another week. :( I think it makes more sense for the story, though. Anyway. Thank you for the comments, and especially the ones about my portrayal of trauma/PTSD in this story. Much appreciated. I'm giving this chapter a very mild **TW** for mentions of suicide. **/TW** I think that's it for now. Have a good week, everyone.

## CHAPTER 30: Hand to God

**. . .**

Once they were in the bathroom, the door shut tight to prevent any nosy, fur-covered snouts from poking in, Olivia took charge. She ushered Amanda to the toilet, signaling for her to take a seat on the closed lid. The blonde was oddly compliant, lowering herself onto the porcelain cover with measured movements. It reminded Olivia of the way a pregnant woman would sit down, holding her stomach as she squatted, crabwalking backward, the other hand out for balance on the towel bar. Amanda was in more pain than she was letting on, a condition Olivia recognized all too well.

She opened the medicine cabinet first, squinting at the assortment of over-the-counter and prescription labels on the top shelf until she located the Percocet in its pylon-orange bottle. With a press and twist of the childproof cap, she was about to shake two of the tablets into her palm when Amanda said, "Uh-uh. Already had a couple today. And I's . . . I was drinkin'. Just gimme the Tylenol. Please."

"Are you sure? It's been over six hours since . . . " Since they sat like statues next to each other at Noah's dance recital. Since they fought and fucked and fled. Since Alex. Had that really all happened in the past six hours? God, no wonder she felt so discombobulated. (Another Serena word. Her mother's spirit—and spirits—were alive and well tonight.)

"You can have another dose by now, can't you?" she finished, looking down at the pills as if they would supply the answer. She shook them in her palm like pint-sized dice and almost jumped out of her skin when Amanda's hand suddenly appeared, covering hers.

Hunched over, arm stretched to the hilt, the blonde gazed up imploringly. The pain on her face went beyond her physical injuries, drawn from a deep inner well of the soul—that place where true anguish and sorrow abide. From time to time there were glimpses: Esther's death, that night on the bathroom floor in the Catskills, in the hotel room after their attempt at bondage went horribly awry. But never had Amanda's sadness been so raw, so near the surface, as in that moment, arm reaching out to Olivia across the sink. "Please."

Quickly, Olivia emptied the tablets back into the bottle and returned it to the shelf, seconds before the wave of guilt crashed over her, threatening to drag her under. She knew Amanda was careful with drugs, coming from a family of substance abusers. Once upon a time, Olivia had exercised the same caution, especially with alcohol. As recently as a week ago, she wouldn't have dreamed of downing six servings of wine on a work and school night, or popping an extra Zoloft to help her sleep. Tonight she'd done both.

It would be the last time. She would give up the antidepressants and the wine altogether, if that was what it took to never feel this way again, smell this way again. See Amanda looking at her this way again.

She grabbed the extra strength Tylenol from the shelf, tempted to bring the bottle of spearmint mouthwash with it, but she was too ashamed to gargle in front of Amanda. Serena used to carry a Listerine bottle with her almost as faithfully as her purse and thermos of vodka. Yet another smell that evoked strong, unpleasant memories for Olivia; these, of hurtful words and hurtful hands, both intended to tear her down, both leaving scars. After a while it became familiar. Normal, even.

Tucked away on the corner of the shelf like a dirty secret, the Zoloft bottle peeked out at Olivia. She unfocused her vision, the medicine labels blending together into one killer dose, and snatched up a tube of Neosporin before she swung the cabinet door shut. Her eyes automatically readjusted on the mirror, her breath catching when she saw the reflection. The hair and eyes were darker, but it was Serena, bloodshot and burnt out—just the way Olivia remembered her. Other than the ring of dirt around her neck.

She tried to brush it off with her fingertips, then realized it was the hickeys Amanda had left behind, marking her. It didn't upset her, as she'd thought it would; as it had in the past, whenever a boyfriend got a little overzealous during a make-out session. Somehow it seemed appropriate. A temporary tattoo that summed up her life story: Marked.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Amanda watching her examine the bruises. She looked like a strange exotic bird perched there on the toilet, the fluffy blanket wrapped around her small shoulders. When their gazes met, she even turned her face away in shame, as if tucking it beneath her wing.

"It's . . . " Olivia let the rest fade. She had said it too much already, and it wasn't true. She wouldn't become a liar, on top of everything else.

Rolling out one of the drawers under the sink, she selected a pink square from the Dagwood stack of terry cloth inside. Ironically, she thought it might be the same washcloth the kids had brought her as a cold compress on Christmas Day. It was for cleaning up blood this time, so she soaked it with a warm stream from the faucet, wrung it out, shook the excess water off her hands and into the sink. She'd almost forgotten the Tylenol, and she turned to Amanda with the bottle in one hand, the washcloth in the other, a questioning look on her face.

"I'll go get you a glass of water," she said, when Amanda selected the medicine. The blonde was funny about her pills and, in spite of regularly inhaling her meals without chewing, would not dry swallow tablets or capsules of any kind. That little quirk usually made Olivia smile, but her thoughts were interrupted now by a hand taking hold of her wrist, preventing the departure.

"Don't go." Amanda kept a loose grip, as if she were afraid to squeeze any tighter. She drew Olivia's hand nearer instead, almost close enough to rest her cheek upon, and pointed toward the sink. "I can just use Optimus Prime."

On the counter, lined up biggest to smallest behind the basin, were three plastic cups that the kids used for rinsing after they brushed—Noah's, naturally the tallest, sported the only Transformer whose name Olivia remembered; in the middle, Jesse's cup had once depicted Olaf from _Frozen_ and a flurry of snowflakes, but all were now lost in a blizzard of dried Colgate; and last but not least, Matilda's tiny pink cup with the sunny little daisies that matched her toothbrush. It was too much to bear, the thought of no longer seeing every kid-related item in the apartment in triplicate like that, and Olivia dismissed it at once.

"Are you sure?" she asked, extending a vague gesture at the door. "I can check if we have any frozen peas. Might have to be brussels sprouts, if you can handle that."

Amanda pulled a face, though neither of them laughed at the in-joke or her revulsion. She and the older kids wouldn't touch Olivia and Matilda's brussels sprouts with a ten-foot pole. "Stay," she replied softly, but with absolute certainty. Her throat clicked as if there was a lump in it, although whether a lump of emotion or another injury, it was hard to say. "Please."

"Okay." Olivia touched Amanda's hand, then gently eased away to rinse out the Transformers cup and fill it with a jet of cold water. She offered it over and intercepted the pill bottle Amanda was having trouble opening because of her bruised and swollen knuckles. Tapping two of the Tylenol into her fiancée's palm, she watched as they were tossed back, a long guzzle drained from Optimus' helmet.

"Thanks," Amanda said around the last gulp. Water dribbled down her chin, and she swiped at it with the back of her hand, wincing when she grazed her lip.

"How'd that happen?" Olivia underscored her own bottom lip with the pad of her index finger, answering Amanda's question before it was asked. Gingerly, she lifted the blonde's chin and began daubing the blood from her mouth with a corner of the warm washcloth. "Nasty split. Did you bite it when he hit you?"

"Um, yeah, I—" Amanda turned her face away as she set the cup on the counter. Below, her knee pogoed up and down until she clamped a hand over it, forcing it still. In a perfect imitation of Frannie caught stealing food from an unattended dinner plate, she gazed upward through her sandy lashes. The ocean meets the shore—was there anything more honest than that? "No, that's . . . that's not what happened. Don't be upset, okay?"

An ill feeling clenched like a fist in Olivia's stomach—like a pang of severe hunger—and she realized she was gritting her teeth. No wonder the pounding in her skull had suddenly exploded. "Okay."

"It was my fault. I shouldn'ta been grabbin' on you when I knew you's having a bad dream. You kinda . . . threw your elbow back." Amanda demonstrated half-heartedly, jutting her elbow to one side. Chin lowered to her chest, she mumbled the rest so softly, it was difficult to make out; still, Olivia got the gist: "Hit me in the mouth. You didn't know what you were doing, you thought I was—"

But Olivia didn't hear the rest. The only thing she heard, over and over like a bad song (what were they called, those tunes that got stuck in your head and drove you mad? Earworms—how fitting), was the last part: _You didn't know what you were doing_. How many times had she said that to her mother? _You didn't mean to hurt me, you just didn't know what you were doing. You didn't mean to say those things, you were drunk. You didn't mean to choke me, you thought I was someone else._

"Liv." Amanda rested her palm against the back of Olivia's hand as it hovered near her mouth, the washcloth gone still.

The interruption to her thoughts was jarring, and Olivia started, nearly dropping the wet rag at their feet. She bunched it tighter in her fist, quickly resuming the dabbing without lifting her gaze any higher than the shallow divot just above Amanda's upper lip. She did love that little fairy-kissed spot, but if she raised her eyes now, Amanda would see them awash with tears. Nobody liked a weepy drunk.

She almost got away with it, until the tears overflowed her half-drawn lids and coursed heavily, hotly down her cheeks. When she knew for certain she'd been caught ("Baby," cooed Amanda, hands rising like an evangelical at the altar, to wipe away the moisture), she let the washcloth slip from her fingers, drew back a step, and covered her face with both hands as she wept.

"What are we doing, Amanda?" she asked, voice surprisingly steady despite the emotion pouring out of her, scorching her cheeks and her throat. She'd thought she was all cried out when she went to bed earlier; she was wrong. "What the hell are we doing?"

"What? Darlin', I don't— Can you look at me?" Amanda captured her by the waist, guiding her forward into a tight hug around the middle. "What do you mean?"

The cigarette odor drifted up from the detective's shaggy bun, seeping through the cracks between Olivia's fingers, but it didn't matter anymore. Nothing could be worse than the feeling that they were being torn apart, slowly but surely. That smell was how she felt inside—dark, ugly, burned, scarred. She lowered her hands and found Amanda gazing up with the saddest, bluest eyes imaginable. Olivia formed a V with her hands below the blonde's chin, fingers just grazing either cheek, her thumb tracing the outline of Amanda's mouth.

"Are we completely destroying each other?" she asked, genuinely in search of an answer. Because she didn't know. She had never been connected so inextricably to another person, as she was to Amanda.

The relationship with her mother had been dangerously codependent at times, but Serena was too inaccessible, too steeped in her own pain, for a true connection to ever form between them. Even Olivia's bond with her children didn't feel as all-consuming, because she knew ( _told_ herself she knew) she could never lose it. But Amanda could walk away at any moment and must be held onto tightly. Somewhere along the way, Olivia had lost sight of how to live without her, of the damage that kind of dependency could cause. Lindstrom had warned her, and she did it anyway. She'd made Amanda the center of her universe, and when that center shifted, everything else spun out of control with it. If she had just been stronger, maybe they wouldn't both be suffering right now.

"What?" Amanda blinked as if Olivia had flicked water into her face. She took her arms from around Olivia's waist and hooked her fingers over the hands cradling her cheeks. Moisture had gathered in the corner of her left eye, and though that was from the injury, she looked on the verge of real tears. "No, Liv. Don't think that."

Olivia saw that her fiancée hadn't finished, that more was about to follow, but she proceeded anyway. She needed to hear her fears out loud, if she had any hope of vanquishing them. The ones kept inside and nurtured were the ones who grew big and strong; who turned on their masters. "How can I not? Look at you, Amanda. Your face . . . "

Her voice gave out, and for a moment, she could only gaze sadly at the blonde's battered features—still pretty, like the strange beauty of a destructive storm or a wildfire—and shake her head. "I can't handle seeing you this way. Knowing I caused it. And look at me: I'm basically my mother. I even smell like her, for Christ's sake. You wanna know why you couldn't wake me up at first? Because I drank too much, and after that fight we had, I took another pill. I— I thought about taking more. Just to sleep, but . . . I can't keep going like this. I can't be like her. And I can't be responsible for hurting you."

Without realizing it, she had started to cry again. These tears she allowed to flow freely, in full view of Amanda—partly because the detective was holding onto her hands and partly because the shame of her confession was so great, she wouldn't even try to hide it.

"Oh, Liv." All at once, Amanda appeared to have aged ten years, her expression grown weary, her posture grown heavy. Even her hair looked flatter, washed out. She closed her eyes, turning her face against the palm of Olivia's hand, pressing her lips there in spite of the pain it must have caused. "Baby, you've got it all wrong. None of this is on you. C'mere."

Against her better judgment, Olivia gave up resisting and allowed herself to be pulled into Amanda's lap after the first few tugs. It should be the other way around, really—Amanda was slimmer than she, delicate-boned and comfortable at a weight Olivia hadn't seen since she was a uni; not to mention the hole still knitting itself back together in the blonde's gut—but she wanted to be held. She _felt_ small, the way she did as a child when she longed for her mother to hold her, to say everything was going to be all right. Serena seldom had, and she definitely never initiated it like Amanda did now, settling Olivia across her lap, treating her light as a feather.

"First off, it ain't your fault, the way I look," Amanda said in a voice soft but serious, as if she were impressing a point on a young child. She had wrapped Olivia into the blanket with her, practically rocking her like a swaddled infant. If she smelled the wine, the vomit, and the sweat, she was doing a good job of hiding it. "I'm the one who ran off half-cocked and got into a fistfight. And if I hadn't snuck up on you like an idiot while you were sleepin', my lip would be fine. 'Sides, you didn't hit me that hard. My teeth were just in the way."

The last part was meant to be a joke, Olivia realized by the inflection Amanda used. Neither of them laughed. She cupped her hand to the detective's cheek again, the heel of her palm supporting Amanda's chin; her thumb skimmed over the split lip without touching, like a stone skipping the surface of a pond. The bleeding had slowed, and now the fissure resembled the broken skin of a piece of fruit, pink and pulpy underneath. It probably wouldn't require stitches. Or maybe that was just what Olivia needed to tell herself. "Does it hurt very badly?" she asked, anxious. She peered into Amanda's swollen eye. "Are you sure I shouldn't take you to the hospital?"

"I'm sure. And my lip doesn't hurt that much, see?" Amanda probed the raw spot with the tip of her tongue, the same way she did when she dribbled chocolate sauce or some other messy topping down her chin. She managed not to flinch, but the cut had to hurt. Even now, Olivia could taste blood in her mouth just remembering some of her own similar injuries. "We'll put some of that Neosporin on it, and I'll be— you don't hafta do it right this minute."

Olivia sat forward and reached for the ointment, laid out on the counter with the Tylenol and the Transformers cup. An oral pain reliever would have been better, in case of ingestion, but the Neosporin would have to suffice for now. "Yes, I do," she said, squeezing a dewdrop onto her index finger and carefully dabbing it to Amanda's lip. Their eyes met as she tended the wound, and there was something different in the pale blue irises; something quiet and resolved that frightened Olivia, until she recognized it—surrender. "Just try not to lick. I'll stop by the drug store and pick you up some balm tomorrow."

That simple comment seemed to bolster Amanda's spirit somehow, and she held Olivia tighter, nodding along as if she'd received a full treatment plan from a medical doctor. She didn't even claim not to need balm, or scoff at the suggestion that she might lick the antibiotic from her lips like one of the dogs after a vet visit. "Thanks," she said softly, and touched the strand of hair that framed Olivia's face, rubbing it between her fingers. It probably felt like the bristles of a used paint brush—stiff and oily—but she treated it as if it were hand-painted silk. "Now, about your mama. You gotta know you're nothin' like her, Liv. If you think—"

There was a pause, and Olivia glanced up from the Neosporin tube she was rotating against her knee, fingers sliding to the opposite end after each revolution, an endless loop. She held her breath and waited for the rest, almost certain she knew what it would be.

"If you think the drinkin' and the pills are becoming a problem, we can get you some help." Amanda placed her palm on top of Olivia's restless hands, anticipating a strong reaction to those words ("Mom, I think you need help," Olivia had worked up the courage to say, only after she'd moved out permanently) before one even came. "But it's not like you're getting drunk and poppin' pills all the time. You had a bad night, overdid it a little. It's understandable. Trust me, darlin', I know what addicts look like, and that ain't you. Not by a long shot. You do kinda stink, though."

The last part was so offhand, Olivia almost didn't catch it. She forced a weak smile to match the tentative one Amanda tipped at her. It was true that tonight had been her worst night in quite a while, that she seldom drank past her three glass limit—although she'd been hitting it regularly for the last several nights—and could count on one hand the number of times she had taken more than the recommended dosage of prescription meds since she'd started visiting the doctor by herself in high school. But the specter of her mother's alcoholism (and later, her father's, brought to her attention by her junkie brother) would forever stand just over her shoulder, whispering doubt, whispering for one more. _You can handle it_.

"Not that I have any room to talk. I pro'ly smell like the ass-end of some old honkytonk bar." Amanda shrugged her shoulder, sniffing the strand of lank blonde hair that draped there, loosed from the bundle atop her head like straw from the hat of an overstuffed scarecrow. She wrinkled her nose, finding that her assessment wasn't too far off. Releasing Olivia's hands for a moment, she reached behind her head, snagged the hair with one finger, and guided it off her shoulder. She cast an apologetic look back to Olivia. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come home like this. Didn't even stop to think about it triggerin' you. It was just the cigarettes, though. And some bourbon. Swear I didn't have any vodka. That douchebag spilled his on me."

Vodka never had been Amanda's drink, at least not that Olivia was aware. It hadn't occurred to her until right then that the detective might be intentionally abstaining for her sake. Absurdly, the thought made her want to cry again, but she held herself together. No sense crying over spilt milk—or spilt vodka. "I believe you," she heard herself say, and found that it was true. Whatever Amanda had gotten up to tonight, she wasn't lying about it now. Neither of her legs were bouncing beneath Olivia, and her gaze was fairly steady. Intent, even.

Still, Olivia didn't want to ask too many questions and risk frightening the blonde away. It was best to let Amanda open up on her own, otherwise she became defensive and closed off. Olivia understood that response; had spent years perfecting it, as a matter of fact. But this past year with Amanda, she had discovered the enormous relief that came from sharing her deepest, darkest secrets with someone she trusted, someone who cared enough to listen. She wasn't perfect at it—there were times she still caught herself holding back, and there were memories she still hadn't brought to light and likely never would (what good could come of detailing the slaps and shoves, the hateful words, the choking, the sadness?), but her instincts were no longer to shut down, to board up all her windows and doors, and shelter in place. At least not with Amanda.

If only her fiancée felt that way in return. Olivia tried to be as accessible and judgment-free as possible, offering as much support as Amanda would allow, but it never seemed to be enough. She was never enough.

"You ain't— aren't feeling, like . . . you wanna, you know, die or somethin'," Amanda asked haltingly, fine worry lines etched like parentheses around her mouth, deeper creases laddering her brow, "right?"

Taken aback by the question, Olivia automatically shook her head without pausing to consider an answer. She _had_ wanted to die before—when her mother couldn't bear to look at her, although that was more guilt for having ever been born than a wish not to live; when Harris breached her lips, shattering that painstakingly constructed illusion that it would Never Happen to Her; when Lewis breached her soul, twisting it and her body to suit his warped fantasies; when Calvin used her like a dirty gym sock and thanked her afterward—but she'd never been suicidal.

( _Click._ )

That was different, though. The Russian Roulette hadn't been by choice, despite Lewis framing it that way. Nothing she had done with  
( _or to, or for_ )  
him was by choice. Nothing.

"Noth— no." Olivia shook her head again, firmly. The migraine thrummed inside her temples with each side to side motion, her vision lagging, smearing, like a cheap video camera with poor tracking. She stilled, breathing steadily through her nostrils, as if meditating. "I just wanted to sleep and forget about . . . things for a little while."

Shamefaced, Amanda looked down at their hands for several long beats, her throat contracting thickly. It was the only sound in the small bathroom—that, and Olivia's ticking watch. She had put it back on out of habit when she got dressed before Alex's arrival. With the realization came a fresh wave of guilt, and Olivia bit her lip until she could no longer hold back, blurting in unison with Amanda:

"Good, because the note by the bed—"

"I called Alex after you left."

**. . .**


	32. Chapter 31: The Truth Shall Set You Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that there's eight chapters (technically seven chapters & an epilogue) left after this one, guys. It's been confusing trying to keep track, with the prologue messing up the chapter numbers this whole time. Just wanted to bring that up again, so y'all weren't wondering why there were chapters "missing" by the end. Also, giving this chapter a **TW** for mentions of sexual assault. **/TW**

## CHAPTER 31: The Truth Shall Set You Free

**. . .**

_"I called Alex after you left."_

Just as Olivia had feared, Amanda stiffened at the news, her arms gone as rigid as the steel cables that supported the RFK, rather than the gentle cradle they had formed seconds before. Her eyes were blue sparks, like the sudden zap of an electrical outlet. Supposedly the blue underbelly was the hottest part of a flame.

The silence lasted a full fifteen seconds—Olivia counted each tick of her Breitling, amplified to the volume of a wall clock by the bathroom's acoustics—then Amanda finally made a sound that was part hum, part grunt of acknowledgement. "Yeah, I kinda figured," she said quietly, and though the admission obviously bothered her, she kept a level tone, relaxing her embrace around Olivia. The only thing she couldn't control were those eyes, electric, incendiary.

"You did? How?" Olivia asked, bracing for an accusation or another explosion of anger. She didn't want to bring Alex into this again and risk snapping the tenuous thread that had just begun stitching them back together; but if they were going to make any sort of real progress, she needed to be upfront with Amanda. Hiding Alex's visit would only drive more of a wedge between them, and if Jesse happened to let slip the news about "Mommy's friend" stopping by, they would be in the same mess all over again. She wouldn't put that on Jesse's tiny shoulders, and she didn't want it on her own conscience.

"I saw her lipstick on one of the wine glasses. Smelled her perfume in the living room." Amanda gazed toward the door, as if she might be able to see past it into the living room, maybe even see a misty silhouette of Alex outlined on the couch, like an afterimage captured in Chanel No. 5. "I know your scent, Liv. And your lipstick."

The connotation of those simple phrases—that Amanda knew her down to the smallest detail; that she cared enough to pay such close attention to things most people overlooked—stole Olivia's breath away and rendered her incapable of saying much more than, "Oh."

"I don't blame you for callin' her. Wouldn't even blame ya if something happened between y'all," Amanda said, glancing inside the blanket at Olivia's chest, bare except for the bra she'd worn to work nearly twenty-four hours earlier. The detective looked unbearably sad then, the spark in her eyes dying out. "Not after the way I acted."

"Amanda. Look at me." Gently, Olivia took her fiancée by the chin, urging it up until their eyes met. The left side was still inflamed and bloated to three times its regular size, giving Amanda an oddly doll-like appearance, as if one of her automatic open and close lids had gotten stuck. She would hate that comparison, pediophobe that she was. It only made Olivia's heart ache all the more. She traced her thumb underneath the budding bruise, as close as she dared without touching it. "Nothing happened. I just . . . I needed someone to talk to. When I couldn't get through to you, I tried her because . . . "

 _Because I was drunk and desperate? Because I had something to prove? Because I wanted to pay you back for walking out on me?_ Classic Olivia. Still running to a lawyer friend for help when things got really bad.

"I didn't know what else to do. She came over and we talked. Maybe half an hour at most. Barely even drank the Nero I opened." Olivia frowned at the pocket of skin between her thumb and forefinger, discolored and partly smooth now, her latest of many scars. She was turning into a patchwork of slash marks, zigzags, and burns; a story quilt that told of a life spent dodging the blade, the jagged bottle, the smoldering kiss of a cigarette tip. When would the story end?

"I dumped the rest of the bottle. That's how I broke the glass," she said distantly, stroking the scar with the index finger of her opposite hand. It filled her with a sudden, overwhelming shame she couldn't—or didn't want to—identify. "I shouldn't have left it lying around. I should've cleaned it up so the kids didn't see. Or get hurt. I'm sorry, I—"

Amanda placed her fingertips lightly to Olivia's trembling lips. "It's okay, darlin'. I took care of it. They didn't see, nobody got hurt." She was rocking them again, so gently it was almost imperceptible. Her palm circled Olivia's back, smoothing away the tension and the hitch of emotion that made it difficult to catch a breath. "You don't have to apologize for that. Or anything, for that matter."

"Yes, I do. You were right about Alex. She made a pass at me. I stopped her, told her it was never going to happen. That I'm in love with you. Marrying _you_. Then I asked her to leave and she did. But you were right . . . about the earrings, about her ulterior motives, about all of it. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

Olivia hadn't meant for it to tumble out in one breath like that—or at all—but there was no stopping once she'd gotten started. She wouldn't mention the kiss, though; how, for that fraction of a second, she longed for it, even if she had wanted the lips to belong to Amanda. Sometimes full disclosure wasn't the best way to go, especially when it would only hurt someone you loved and stir up more trouble. She knew that better than anyone.

"And I won't see her anymore," she added anxiously, when Amanda didn't respond for a long time, her expression unreadable behind the swelling and bruises. "I don't think she and I are capable of being friends now, anyway. Our lives are too different. So much has changed . . . I don't need her anymore. I just need you."

She was fawning again. Avoiding conflict by telling Amanda everything she wanted to hear, whether or not it was in her own best interest. And she found she didn't care. What she wanted, what was in her best interest, was Amanda Rollins. If that meant losing a friendship that drifted in and out of her life every few years—like cicadas that emerged from the soil every thirteen years to molt and mate and die within weeks—then so be it.

"I love you, Amanda." Searchingly, she tried to catch a glimpse of Amanda's downturned face, worried she had pushed too hard. The detective usually lit up like their still-standing Christmas tree whenever Olivia declared her love, which she had trained herself to do often.

Until she'd met her first fiancé, Daniel McNab, she had heard the words "I love you" only twice in her life—and only one of those times was from her mother. She could even put a number to how many times she had said it to someone else before adopting her son (a grand total of four). Back then, it felt foreign in her mouth, almost embarrassing, as if she'd uttered the wrong lines in a play. Now, she said it daily, naturally, and with her whole heart, to her children. It had taken a little more practice with Amanda, a grown woman who might not say it back; but once Olivia started, she hadn't been able to stop. To her immense relief, Amanda had always returned the sentiment freely.

Or used to.

Olivia was about to repeat herself, in case her fiancée hadn't heard (of course she had, they were inches apart), when Amanda finally raised her head again, unshed tears glittering in one eye, leaking from the corner of the other. She nibbled at the frayed skin on her sore lip, a fresh drop of blood sprouting like a tiny, red toadstool. She licked it off, then wetted her lips several more times, making a false start after each.

"You might feel different when you hear what I done. Did." Amanda cringed at the mistake, casting an almost fretful look at Olivia, as if she were a strict teacher known to scold for sloppy grammar. "You might not want me anymore."

Olivia's heart skipped a beat, and she was glad Amanda's hand had returned to her waist, where it couldn't detect the subsequent pounding in her chest. She wasn't afraid that her feelings for Amanda would change, but she did fear finding out what had gotten the detective to this state—so subdued, so raw.

Olivia didn't recall ever seeing her that way before, except in the days immediately after the Charles Patton trial and the shooting death of Esther Labott. She hadn't been able to reach out to Amanda like she'd wanted to during either of those moments; had let her determination not to be seen as the soft-hearted, touchy-feely commander of the sex police prevent her from offering the detective a shoulder to cry on. Now she realized some of that had been a means of keeping Amanda at bay and denying the attraction she'd felt for her subordinate, whom she had no business getting close to, physically or emotionally.

Well, that ship had long since sailed. And Olivia hadn't missed it for a single minute.

"I won't feel differently," she said, cupping her hand to the unblemished side of the blonde's face. "I promise. There is nothing you can tell me that will make me stop loving you, Amanda Jo."

Ten seconds ticked by on the Breitling. Fifteen. Then twenty. At twenty-five, Amanda readied herself, drawing a deep breath, as if preparing to dive headfirst into icy waters. At thirty, the plunge: "I took the earrings to a pawn shop after I left. Thought I could get enough cash to pay for . . . things. I been worryin' about money a lot lately, with the weddin' coming up, and Christmas, and— and I saw this ring in the jewelry store when I took your watch to be repaired. It was so pretty and it reminded me so much of you. I wanted to buy it to replace the one that prick ripped off your finger . . . "

Here, she paused to twist the engagement band in question around Olivia's finger like a radio dial, seeking a clearer station. "Didn't want you thinking about that every time you looked at it. But the other ring was too expensive. I couldn't afford it _and_ the watch. And here I was puttin' all that pressure on you about a joint account, when I got nothin' to contribute. We wouldn't even have been in that damn bank if it weren't for me. And now look at us."

"Oh, sweetheart." Olivia looped the same stray lock of hair from earlier behind Amanda's ear, smoothing it into place repeatedly, compulsively, as if it might flutter loose in an unexpected breeze. She had known the younger woman was fretting about money recently, but to what extent, she hadn't realized. Amanda actually looked ill while speaking of it, the color drained from her cheeks, teeth chattering like a jonesing crack addict. "I wish you'd told me it was bothering you this much. I don't want another ring. This one is perfect. If anything, it's a reminder that nothing can tear us apart, no matter how bad it gets."

A sad smile plucked at the corner of Amanda's lips, but went no farther. The moisture from her battered eye glistened on the overripe lid, the skin there as puffy and seamless as a newborn's, much too tender to be touched. "There's more, though. And I need ya to just . . . just hear me out, okay? I don't want you defending me or making excuses for me."

The urgency of the request, the prayer-soft tone in which it was given, alleviated the sting that might otherwise have accompanied those words—as if she were an enabler. A fawner. Olivia folded her lips together, nodding in earnest. She knew how to listen with impartiality; she did it nearly every day on the job. It was easier with strangers to whom she had no emotional connection, but she could do it for Amanda's sake.

"I couldn't go through with pawnin' 'em, though," said Amanda, forcefully, plowing full steam ahead with the story like there had been no interruption. Her gaze grew distant, endless blue as the ocean. "I got to thinking 'bout how my daddy used to pawn my mama's jewelry to feed his habit. My sister did the same damn thing with that guy's flute that time. I know you said get rid of the earrings, but . . . that ain't— that's not the kind of person I wanna be. Not the kind of wife I want to be to you." She clasped Olivia's hand—the one wearing the engagement ring—to her bare chest, the way girls in period dramas hugged a rose from a lover to their bosoms.

That argument seemed so long ago now: storming over to the dresser, taking out the earrings and tossing them on the bed, telling Amanda to do with them as she pleased. Olivia was glad the detective hadn't pawned them, not because she planned to wear them, much less keep them—they were tainted far more than the ring—but because Amanda looked crushed that she'd even considered putting them in hock.

"I still got 'em in my pocket. You can have them back and wear them whenever you want. I won't bitch at ya anymore, I swear." Amanda tucked a lock of hair behind Olivia's ear this time, fondling the lobe as though one of the diamond drops already sparkled there. She drew back her fingers a moment later, closing them into the clamshell of her fist. "I shoulda come home when I left that place. I wanted to. I almost answered your call, but I was too . . . "

Amanda made a helpless, grasping gesture as she searched for the word that her expression clearly conveyed: she was too scared. Scared she would be told not to return, just as Olivia had been on the other end of the call, fearing the opposite—that her fiancée would never come back.

In the end, Amanda couldn't put a name to the emotion, but she forged on all the same. "Everything was just buildin' up inside me, ya know? Felt like I's gonna explode if I didn't . . . _do_ something. Kept thinking about the money. I know that's just an excuse. That's always been my excuse—needin' the money. Tonight's the first time I let myself believe it in a really, really long time. I thought I could just go in and get right back out . . . "

About halfway through the preface, Olivia caught her breath, held it, anticipating what was to come. She knew, even before it crossed Amanda's lips. It was something she had quietly tried to prepare herself for since their relationship began—the possibility that Amanda would one day have a gambling slip or a full-blown relapse. In the early stages, when she was still trying to talk herself out of getting romantically involved with a coworker (who was also a subordinate and a woman), she had used Amanda's addiction as yet another example of why it would never work between them.

 _You can't trust an addict, Olivia_. She'd learned that lesson before she learned the ABCs—and she had been a quick study, able to recite the entire alphabet by age three—only to have it reinforced with every forgotten birthday, every school ceremony disrupted by the loud drunk in the front row, every broken promise to "get better." It had taken her years to trust Amanda at all, based on the simple fact that she was an addict and those mornings she cruised into the squad room late, sunglasses in place, hair and clothes woefully out of, had hit much too close to home for Olivia.

But Lindstrom had made a good point, as he so often did: "Your mother never sought help for her alcoholism, Olivia. An addict must first want to change if they're ever going to recover. Amanda has done both. You have every right to be angry at your mother, but don't let that stand in the way of your happiness now."

That had been the real game changer in her decision to date Amanda. Of course, the doctor later warned her that long-time recovered addicts occasionally had slip-ups as well and not to assume the worst if it happened. So she'd planned for this moment, hoping that it wouldn't transpire, telling herself not to be angry if it did. When it did.

And here it was:

"I went to a casino. Nothing illegal—just that shitty one out in Queens. Everything's electronic and annoying there. Plus, it's humongous." Amanda curled her upper lip in disgust, without a twitch from the bottom. She resembled Frannie baring her teeth in a "smile," the kids' favorite command for the pit mix; and for a second, it was easy to forget that she was admitting to losing her sobriety. "Anyway, that's not . . . never mind. I just— I didn't even want to be there, is what I'm tryna say. I wasn't having a good time like I used to. All I could think about was you and the kids. How I's letting you down. It felt . . . it felt like I was cheating on you."

She mumbled the last part, her voice so indistinct Olivia strained to make it out. They had both been testing the waters of infidelity, then. Olivia had sipped at hers, found it wanting; Amanda dove into the deep end, ignoring the undertow signs. Whether she'd sink or swim remained to be seen.

"Used to be, I could tune that out. Knock back a couple drinks, smoke a few cigarettes. By my fifth or sixth hand of blackjack, I'd be feelin' no pain." Amanda gave a humorless, convulsive little laugh that sounded more like a bark, the kind of noise Gigi made when a stranger got too close to the children. She shook her head, scattering wispy strands from the blonde nest on top. "I was even winning this time, but I didn' care. That's when I . . . I called Daphne. Think I wanted— I wanted someone to stop me? I didn't want you to see me like that, so I called her.

"That's when the douchebag started hittin' on me. The guy, I mean, not Daph. He ended up, uh, propositioning me 'n her. And you, actually."

"Me?" Olivia asked, eyebrows flicking upward in surprise. The reaction was a bit delayed, that line from a moment before still ringing in her ears: _I didn't want you to see me like that_. Well, she sure as hell understood that. She was sitting in her soon-to-be wife's lap, on a toilet, spilling out of a bra and too-tight leggings, with vomit in her hair. Real class-act she turned out to be.

Even in college, she'd made sure to clean herself up after a night of heavy drinking and partying—few and far between, those—fearful of waking up next to the latest frat boy (or latest professor) who might see in her a glimpse of Serena. A pathetic, sloppy, slutty drunk. And now Amanda had seen it. How the detective would ever be attracted to her again after tonight, Olivia couldn't say.

"—my wife'd kick his ass. Then he made some pervy comment about invitin' you along," Amanda said, looking as if she were about to turn and spit a curse at the man's feet. "So I decked him. It was a good one too, but he rounded on me right quick. I didn't see it comin' in time  
'cause . . . " She swept an accusatory gesture down her front. "Drank too much. Gettin' hit kinda snapped me out of it, though. I guess this is a good thing."

Shaking her head, Olivia reached for the fingertips Amanda was using to probe the skin below her swollen eye. _No_. "No," she said out loud, drawing the hand into her lap.

At first, Amanda looked down in surprise—and with a little hope—at their joined hands, but her features quickly darkened, sullen shadows pooling in the hollows between bruises. She worked her thumb over Olivia's knuckles, the continuous swiping reminiscent of a card dealer doling out the deck. As if she'd noticed the similarity too, she stopped mid-stroke and poked her thumb between Olivia's closed fingers, trapping it in place.

"We left after that," she resumed, gazing inside the gap where the blanket didn't quite meet around their shoulders. There was nothing amorous about the look. She appeared to be staring right through Olivia's chest, though it was overflowing the bra cups in a way she had once described as "two large caramel soft serves melting on small cones."

("I didn't realize I was marrying a poet," Olivia had responded dryly, then laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks.)

"Me and Daph, I mean. Talked for a while outside, then went to a diner." Eyes like frosted window panes, a sapphire sky on the other side, Amanda pressed on, unblinking. "She told me I had to sober up before I came home. Gave me this whole lecture about you bein' a lady and how I better apologize to you like one."

Good ol' Daphne.

"So that's it, basically," Amanda said with a note of resolution, and now she brought her eyes into focus, training them on Olivia's face. "That, and I played a scratch ticket when we were Christmas shopping at the mall. I kinda . . . found it by accident. Told myself I could handle it, just that once. How dumb am I?"

No dumber than someone who thought one more glass of wine would solve the problem, one more pill would help her sleep. (Not just dumb, but _stupid_.) Olivia opened her mouth to reply, ready to assent that, while mistakes had definitely been made, Amanda was far from dumb, but she was interrupted before she began.

"Go ahead and yell at me, okay? Don't sugarcoat it. I know how bad I fucked up, and I deserve whatever you got." Amanda set her jaw with a military air, like a soldier heading into battle. "You wanna cuss me out, cuss. You wanna hit me, hit me. If you tell me to pack up my shit and get the hell out, I won't blame ya. Just . . . make it hurt, whatever you do, 'cause I can't stand feeling this way anymore."

"Amanda, I am not going to hit you," Olivia said, touching the blonde's clenched jaw, its delicacy an almost absurd contrast to the steely exterior it was meant to project. She traced her fingertips along the ridge, treating it as gently as fine crystal.

The anger she had expected to feel—that she'd fretted about to Dr. Lindstrom; that she sometimes journaled about, writing reminders to herself to stay calm and not be too hard on Amanda if _it_ happened; that she'd felt whenever her mother broke a promise to stay sober—wasn't there. Mostly she just felt sad and tired. "I would never do that. And what good would yelling or swearing do?" She bunched her shoulders and let them drop, the blanket slipping from one side. "I don't want you to leave. And I don't want to hurt you."

Amanda dipped a glance to Olivia's bare shoulder and drew the blanket back over it, lifting aside a tuft of dark hair. Her eyes darted to the right, to Olivia's neck, and she held the hair carefully away from it like she was peering beyond a curtain, disturbed by what lay on the other side. "But look at what I did to you," she said insistently, a scratch in her voice making it sound worn thin, reedy. "I put bruises on you, Liv. On your"—she thumbed Olivia's neck so gently it tickled, her own throat catching—"on your body. And I did do it because of Alex, 'cause I'm a jealous piece of shit. I wanted her to see that you're mine and she can't have you. And what about all the other stuff I did in there?"

She flung a hand towards the honeycomb tiled wall, their bedroom just on the opposite side, carpet stained with Merlot, remnants of an iPhone scattered on the floor. "I threw you against the dresser and pulled your hair. I tried to trigger you on purpose so you'd stand up for yourself. I practically . . . practically forced you to have sex when you didn't want to. Christ Almighty, how can you even look at me right now?"

"What do you want me to say, that you were an asshole?" asked Olivia, feeling strangely calm in spite of Amanda's rising emotion. Serene, almost. (At the age of twelve, she had laughed uncontrollably when she found _Serena_ in a baby name book and realized it derived from the word _serene_.) "Fine, you were an asshole. If you ever treat me like that again, we're done. But I know that wasn't you, Amanda. You've been through so much lately. You're still reeling."

Olivia swept aside the bangs that had fallen to mingle in Amanda's eyelashes. "And let's get something straight, you didn't force me to do anything against my will. You were . . . inappropriate, but I let it happen. And you didn't throw me. I outweigh you by thirty pounds. In fact, I shouldn't even be sitting—"

When Olivia shifted, preparing to stand, Amanda held her around the waist, keeping her still. "You think that means I can't hurt you? My daddy used to get into bar fights all the time, with guys twice his size, and he always won. Almost beat some guy to death once. He's got this superhuman strength when he's mad. I got it too. One of the only things the sonuvabitch gave me, 'sides the blue eyes and the gambling habit."

Abandoning the attempt to move, Olivia went very still on her own now. She knew little more about Dean Rollins than Amanda knew about Serena Benson. Both parents were subjects they avoided as much as possible, and when either did come up, the conversation was usually stilted and uncomfortable. But Amanda hadn't batted an eye when she mentioned her father this time, and she seemed poised to continue.

Sure enough:

"Been thinkin' about him a lot lately. Having Mama here just . . . I dunno, just brought it all back or something. When I was at the pawn shop, I got to rememberin' how he used to drag me along to hock Mama's stuff so he'd have an accomplice. Someone else to share the blame. He'd gimme some of the money, though. And I always took it.

"That's the kind of person you'll be marrying if you stick with me. Mean white trash who'll do anything for a buck," Amanda said matter-of-factly, leaving no room for a different interpretation. She made a soft, disgusted sound like a bug had flown into the back of her mouth. "You deserve so much better than that, Olivia. Things I can't ever give you. I'm afraid I'll just hold you back or . . . or hurt you. I can't stand that I keep screwing up and getting you hurt."

"Amanda. You're the one who just got shot." Olivia gazed at her fiancée in disbelief, slipping a hand inside the blanket and gently cupping it at Amanda's side, a safe distance from the bandage. "You're the one who got hit in the face twice tonight. If anybody's getting hurt, baby, it's you. I'm fine—I don't even feel the hickeys and my hair's been pulled a lot harder than that before."

That much was true. Slaps had been Serena's favored brand of punishment, a sort of feverish delight in her smog-colored eyes whenever she landed an especially satisfying crack across Olivia's cheek, but hair-pulling was a close contender. She had yanked Olivia by the hair every step of the way into the police precinct to turn in Daniel for statutory rape; Olivia's scalp was sore for days after, and she hadn't minded lopping off several inches of her mane-like hair when Serena apologized with shopping and a trip to the salon. Less for her mother to grab.

"I'm not just talkin' about tonight," Amanda said, her tone heated, more from trying to impress her point than from anger. "Or even the shooting. It's been going on a lot longer than that. When Mama hit you on Christmas, it all"—with a flick of the fingers, she splayed her hand open in front of her eyes, simulating a bright flash—"I dunno, kinda blew up. It got me thinkin'. I'm supposed to protect you, and I can't even do that right."

The detective's fiercely protective side was one of the qualities Olivia loved most about her, and it hadn't gone unnoticed that the majority of that fierceness centered on Olivia herself. It felt good to finally be so important to someone, but maybe she had indulged it too much. If it was putting this kind of strain on Amanda, it wasn't worth it. Olivia wasn't worth it.

"It's not your job to protect me, love—"

"Yes, it is," Amanda burst in, her hands giving Olivia an adamant little shake around the waist. "You're my— you're everything, Liv, and it _is_ my job to keep you safe. But I keep on lettin' you down and hurtin' you just like everybody else always has."

Olivia wasn't quite sure who the "everybody else" referred to, but she had a feeling her mother would be near the top of that list. "When have you let me down? You make me feel safer and more loved than anyone ever has. I didn't even think . . . I didn't know if I _could_ be loved, until you showed me how. I thought I was going to be alone the rest of my life.

"But this," she said, locating her fiancée's left hand under the blanket and bringing it to her heart, ring on ring, her free hand going to the same spot on Amanda's chest, "you and me—it's the first time I've ever felt wanted. You've given me so much, my love. Things money can't buy."

A teardrop escaped Amanda's good eye and she quickly swiped it away with her shoulder, the blanket sliding off and draping around her arms and Olivia's, like an off the shoulder gown. She gazed down at their clasped hands, cushioned at Olivia's breast, then inhaled so sharply, it whistled in her throat. "Oh God, Liv, you don't even know. All the ways I've failed you."

She broke then, taking deep shuddering breaths, releasing them in sobs, tears raining vehemently from both eyes. Amanda Rollins didn't cry; but when she did, it was with the absolute and inconsolable despair of a child. "I could've stopped so many of the bad things that've happened to you. I'm the reason Lewis found you, and then I ignored my instincts those first couple days you were gone. I knew somethin' wasn't right, but I was too caught up in my own bullshit to . . . Maybe if I had followed through, he wouldn'ta had you for so long. Maybe he wouldn'ta hurt you so bad."

Every bit of moisture had withered on Olivia's tongue at the mention of Lewis, of those days with him. She tasted the vodka, even now. For months after that four-day hell, she'd drunk Merlot just to mask the flavor he left in her mouth, part kerosene, part burnt hair. There were other things in that bouquet—things she didn't dwell on or wish to know about. It seemed she was still searching for the right vintage to drown them out, all these years later.

She tried to speak, found she couldn't. Amanda wasn't through anyway.

"An- and Calvin. I . . . " The detective looked to Olivia with such pleading and distress in her watery blue eyes, it was physically painful not to intervene, not to hold her and tell her she needn't continue. But she did need to; she needed to pour out the secrets she'd been bottling up for so long, and Olivia, no matter how difficult and triggering it was to hear, needed to listen.

"It's my fault he did that to you. I was upstairs in Amelia's apartment talkin' to the goddamn neighbor lady while he was down there on top of you. And then I just poked around like a fuckin' rookie in that warehouse while he—" Amanda let out a small, miserable moan, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, a penitent looking to heaven for redemption from purgatory. Her prayer was disjointed and shaky, broken by sobs both silent and full-bodied, but every word was crystal clear: "I was right outside the door while he assaulted you. If I'd moved a little faster and acted like a cop instead of gawkin' at pictures, I would've been able to get that freak off of you before he did anything."

Before he reamed her tits and came all over them, she meant. Two years and two months later, even Amanda couldn't say it. Worse yet, she felt responsible for it. Olivia realized then that she was still clutching the blonde's hand to her chest, now in a death grip. When she started to let go, Amanda snapped to attention, looking crushed. Olivia shook her head and brought the palm to her lips, pressing them to the fate line down the center, pressing that to her cheek.

"Baby, no. No." For a moment, that was the only word Olivia could produce—the only one she remembered. She swallowed dryly several times, trying to restore enough saliva to flush the sawdust from her throat; let another sound pass through. She wanted to cry along with her fiancée, but didn't have the tears. ( _You're bone-dry, Detective. Menopause already? No? Well, let's see what you've got in this drawer to get you nice  
and—_)

"What they did to me," she said in a rush, forcing it out before the thought (memory?) finished itself, "none of that is your fault. There's nothing you could have or should have done differently to stop it. Lew— he would've gotten to me no matter what. I was . . . "

 _His_. _Forever and always_.

She had the brands to prove it. She was livestock.

"It happened the way it was meant to. It was ugly and horrific, but— but it ended. He's dead and he'll never hurt anyone else." Olivia held Amanda's hand fast to her cheek, absently raking her fingers along the back, the others knotting into the blanket. Her hands hadn't been this restless in months. "You had a part in that. Who knows how many more people he would've hurt if you hadn't brought him in? He might still be . . . " _Alive_. " . . . active, if not for you. You did your job, Amanda. That's all you could do. You got orders and you followed them, just like I did. No one knew. No one is to blame but him."

Would she ever really believe her own rhetoric? Would Amanda? The detective had listened to the speech, openly weeping at times, sniffling behind a wad of toilet paper torn from the roll at others. She blew forcefully into the tissue now, pinching it from her nose, wincing at the pressure to her surrounding features.

"What about Calvin?" she asked in a soft, childish timbre that went straight to Olivia's heart. She sounded about ten years old, the way she must have back when she used to creep from her hiding spot upstairs and tend to her broken, bloodied mother on whichever downstairs floor the woman was sprawled. "You think that was fate too?"

Maybe it was. Everyone had their calling in this life, the thing that defined them, that they were drawn to time and again by unseen forces. The recurring theme of Olivia Benson's life was sexual trauma: it was the way she came into the world, and the topic that informed almost every bit of advice her mother ever imparted; it was what she had built her career around, twenty-odd years of one heinous act after another; and it was something she'd personally experienced so many times she had stopped counting. If that didn't qualify as destiny, what did?

"I don't know," Olivia said, hating how helpless it sounded, how hopeless.

At some point, she had resigned herself to such a fate, she realized. And she knew precisely when, if she were being truthful. It was when Lewis had her chained to the table. Hearing herself beg to be raped; feeling him harden against her backside, cramming into her as if he were already inside. That had destroyed whatever was left of her after the first time. Deep down, she feared that the reason she hadn't fought him then was because she couldn't, not because she wouldn't.

"I don't know," she repeated sadly, for a moment unable to meet the detective's eye. But she forced herself to do so as she continued—Amanda needed to know she meant this: "Whatever it was, you're not to blame. You saved me that day. And every day since. No one else looks out for me like you do—"

"But Orion. I'm the reason your shoulder's messed up. And Mama . . . " Amanda had lost a little momentum, her certainty beginning to wane. She stroked Olivia's cheekbone with her thumb, the rest of her fingers sifting into the dark hair nearby. "She slapped you the way Daddy did her when I's a kid, when I could only stand back and watch. Same at the bank. That guy had his hands all over you, and I just stood there."

"Sweetheart. Listen to me." Olivia grasped the blonde's forearm, wanting something to hold onto. She had felt like that before—during sex, during her assaults. Moments when she relinquished control or had it taken from her. "It is not humanly possible for you to protect me every single minute of every single day. And those examples you just gave? I was there too. I didn't save you from getting stabbed with a screwdriver. I saw how unhappy you were while your mom was here, but I didn't make her leave. And I stood by while you got _shot_. I'm the one who let _you_ down."

Amanda shook her head stubbornly, some of her determination restored. "It's not the same."

"Why not?"

"It just . . . it just isn't. You're— we're different."

**. . .**


	33. Chapter 32: Holy Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get out your hankies again, guys. I made myself cry with this chapter. Hope it gives you all the feels, as well. And thank you for the lovely reviews for chapter 31. I'm so glad it hit home for so many of you. Y'all are the best. Oh, and happy October!

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And she says take me away  
Then take me farther  
Surround me now  
And hold, hold, hold me like holy water

\- Big & Rich, "Holy Water"

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## CHAPTER 32: Holy Water

**. . .**

" _It just . . . it just isn't. You're— we're different."_

"Different." Olivia stiffened as she echoed the conclusion, sounding it out like a challenging word in a spelling bee. _You're so different_ , Serena had told her, stumbling hungover from the bedroom to find five-year-old Olivia covered in Pop-Tarts crumbs, still starved for things she couldn't have.

 _So dark_.

"You mean I'm weaker. I can't take care of myself, so you have to do it for me." She didn't accuse, just stated. She couldn't really be angry at Amanda for thinking such a thing when she had begun to fear it herself. Every time she fell apart over something mundane—prank calls late at night; pantyhose tied around her wrists; a cigarette tip glowing in the darkness—or had to be scraped off the floor after forgetting to eat, passing out. Every time she woke up crying in the middle of the night, wanting so badly to be held. Every time she self-medicated with pills and wine.

"No. That's not— no, Liv." Swallowing thickly, Amanda looked at her with the same pleading as before, the good eye oversized in her small face. "I shouldn't have said all that shit to you about the nightmares and the drinkin'. I didn't mean it. I just wanted to . . . to piss you off. I wanted you to fight me 'cause . . . " She gazed around the room, as if the rest of the sentence might be penciled in among the tiles like answers in a _New York Times_ crossword. "Aw hell, I don't know. I'm the one who's broken here, not you. I just been so scared lately, and I think I was tryin' to push you away to keep you safe."

Olivia cocked her head to one side, regarding Amanda with deep concern. She wanted to take the blonde in her arms, the way she did with the children when one of them came to her, frightened and crying, but she checked the impulse. A hug wasn't going to solve this problem. "Keep me safe from what, love? Why are you scared?"

"From me," Amanda said, her voice quavering, tears threatening to spill anew. "From how bad I am. My . . . mean streak, my nasty habits. I'm scared I'm turning into him. M-my daddy. An abusive piece of shit who just takes and takes from you, and m-makes everyone around me miserable. I can't do that to you and the kids. I can't h-hurt y'all like that."

There it was—and if it hadn't struck Olivia the moment she heard it, clarifying so much of what had happened in the bedroom a few short hours ago, then the torrent of agonized tears Amanda unleashed would have driven the point home. The detective had been worrying about this for a very long time, probably most of her life. But until the past few years, she only need think of herself. Now, she had a whole family depending on her.

Olivia understood in ways she could never hope to articulate, but for Amanda's sake, she would try. "My love, shh," she murmured, cupping the blonde's face in both hands and soothing her with soft, nuzzling kisses to the cheek and forehead. She cooed several variations of the calming words, waiting for Amanda to regain a little composure before she went on. "You are not an abusive piece of shit, do you hear me? I know abusers—I lived with one for eighteen years, I was partners with one for thirteen years after that. I've seen every type of abuser there is in the past fifty-two years, and I'm here to tell you, that is not who you are, Amanda."

She heard herself repeating a phrase from long ago ("You help people, you don't hurt them") and then: "You say you take and take, but that's not true. All you've ever done is give to me: your time, your understanding, your strength, your love. I've never been happier than I am when I'm with you. Do you know how long I waited for that? The only thing that makes me miserable is seeing you this upset."

Retrieving a contrail of toilet paper from within the depths of the blanket, Amanda swiped it under her leaking nose and sniffed. "But tonight—"

"Was one night," Olivia said, drying Amanda's cheeks with the backs of her fingers, taking extra care on the left side. She was about to sugarcoat it, just as Amanda had told her not to, but sometimes a sprinkling of sugar helped when the medicine was bitter. "You made a lot of mistakes. So did I. And it's gonna take time to fix it, yes. But we've got the rest of our lives to work on it. Together."

"How can you . . . " Amanda cut short the incredulous reply, modifying her tone to something less harsh and demanding. "Why aren't you mad? I thought for sure you'd light into me about the gambling. And the smoking."

Considering the answer for a moment, Olivia fretted her lower lip. She had expected to light into Amanda too; in the past, she would have, especially if the detective's job performance had been affected. But they were in a different place with each other now. Once someone had finally earned Olivia's trust, it wasn't easily broken—sometimes even when it should be.

"I guess, because I know how you feel," she said, testing the words as she spoke them, weighing their truthfulness. She meant every one. "You've seen how it gets to me when a case reminds me of my mother, or . . . " _Or when I remind myself of her._ "Just, how hard it is for me to separate from that. But I used to worry about my father, too. His violence. That I was somehow like him because I chose a job where I could be violent and hard. Cruel, even. I lived with this constant fear that a switch would flip inside of me one day, and I'd become just like him.

"And then . . . and then Lewis—" Olivia paused involuntarily. She couldn't help it; her breath still caught whenever she said his name. Amanda's hand slid around the crook of her elbow and squeezed, excusing her from finishing, but she had already started down the path. No turning back now, Captain. "When I stood over him with that metal bar. I hardly remember it. The— the beating. Sometimes I get these flashes: how the bar felt in my hand or . . . the sounds." She shuddered, hearing them even as she spoke. The dull thuds when she hit a soft spot; the gravel-crunch of bone when she didn't; and the hell-screams from some poor, tortured soul, who turned out to be herself.

"I do remember wanting him dead," she said thinly, finding it difficult to speak above a whisper. Her throat was so dry. "And I wanted to be the one who did it. I . . . I really tried."

"Liv." Amanda took Olivia's trembling hands in her own, chafing them, curling them to her chest like a guarded treasure. "You don't hafta—"

"Just listen," Olivia implored, closing her eyes and taking a moment to breathe. She didn't count it out this time. For a while she'd gotten so used to numbering her respiration, she sometimes had to stop and think how to breathe normally. She would waken at night, digits poised on her tongue, at times upwards of fifty. That obsessive-compulsive behavior had all but disappeared with Amanda's help.

She opened her eyes for a glimpse of the nautical charms that hung from a silver thread of chain around her fiancée's neck. Her beautiful lighthouse in the storm. "Afterwards, I thought that was it. I'd become a monster like my father, like my— like my mother always thought I was. Took me a long time to figure out it wasn't true. Being with Noah helped. And . . . " She hesitated, knowing Amanda wouldn't want to hear the next part, though it was true. "And therapy. I still wonder sometimes—if that was him coming out in me—but less now. You and the kids keep me human."

"Aw, baby," Amanda said, so softly it was almost mouthed. She tucked Olivia's hands to her neck now, chin resting against the backs, her face displayed like a Ming vase on a pedestal—and just as beautiful, in spite of the developing bruises. "I didn't know you felt that way about it. You ain't no monster, I can tell you that. You got the best heart anyone could ask for. It's different with me, though. I went off on my own and did that stuff. You didn't have a choice. He kept you drugged, sleep deprived, dehydrated, starved, tortured, assaulted. Any one of those things by themselves can make a person snap, but all of them together? That wasn't even you who beat him, Liv. It was the trauma."

 _Good girl_ , Olivia thought, vaguely. Out loud she said, "But it is the same. Sweetheart, look at all you've gone through recently. It's only been a few weeks since you got shot and could've died. Less than a year since the Catskills. A little over two since— since Calvin and Amelia. I know you think the last one only happened to me, but you were threatened too. And before that came the brothel shooting. And Esther . . .

"Those are all traumatic experiences, love. If you're just pushing them down instead of dealing with them, don't you think it's possible they're affecting you in all kinds of negative ways?" Olivia grazed her thumb along the channel of Amanda's windpipe, detecting even the tiniest shift as she swallowed, breathed. Listened. "And not just the newer traumas, but the older ones too."

Amanda swallowed hard, her entire throat clenching beneath Olivia's touch. The nod that followed was almost imperceptible—felt, rather than seen. "Yeah, I think . . . I think you might be right. Daphne said somethin' kinda like that too. About everything that's been happening lately, not about the old stuff. I haven't told her about most of that. Guess I should probably tell somebody, huh?"

"Only if you want to," Olivia said gently, trying not to press her luck. This was the longest conversation about Amanda's trauma—past or present—they had ever gotten through without the detective throwing a wall up around herself. Advocating for therapy would just make her shut Olivia out again, as it always had. "But I do think it would help, yes. God knows I'll be giving Lindstrom a call soon."

Amanda cast a remorseful glance to Olivia's neck, shaking her head sadly and taking a deep, weary breath. "You know, I never went to see him that time you sent me there," she confided, her right eye as wide as a confessing child's. She lifted Olivia's hands a little more, hiding her lips behind the knuckles to murmur the rest. "I did go to his office, but I got . . . anxious and left before he came out."

"Yeah, I know." Filled with guilt as well, Olivia stroked the fine line that punctuated the corner of Amanda's mouth. She had found out about the skipped appointment a week or two afterward, and never followed up on it with her detective. Too preoccupied with her new baby and trying to find a balance between motherhood and running a squad on her own. Maybe if she had pushed harder back then, Amanda wouldn't have had so far to fall this time.

Pensively, Amanda pressed her lips to the pad of Olivia's thumb, looking as though she were contemplating her next move in a game of chess. She made a faint peck sound against the finger, before finally drawing back to say, "I think . . . maybe I should try again. Uh, talkin' to someone. A psych— therapy. I don't want us to have any more nights like this ever again."

It was hard to conceal the surprise and the hopefulness she felt at hearing those words coming from Amanda's mouth, but Olivia managed. She nodded as if the younger woman had announced nothing more crucial than a sudden desire to take Spanish lessons. "Okay. I can set up another appointment for you with Dr. Lindstrom. For a referral."

"Yeah. That'd be good." Amanda circled her thumbs compulsively against the back of Olivia's hands, her breathing shallow and shaky. She hadn't sounded this nervous since the night they first kissed, the night they almost had sex on the floor of a ski lodge. "That'd be real good. Thanks, baby. And . . . and I'm gonna start going to meetings more regularly. Never shoulda slacked off in the first place. Thought I had it under control more'n that."

No one understood better than Olivia the false comfort of believing you were in total control, only to have the rug pulled out from under you upon discovering you controlled nothing. She was also aware that Amanda's problems weren't magically fixed because she wanted to try therapy—any more than Olivia's issues had all been solved by years of it—but it was a significant step in the right direction.

"Everyone makes mistakes once in a while, love. The important thing is to acknowledge it and do better next time." She placed a hand gently at either side of Amanda's head, drawing it down to kiss the brow. The smell of cigarette smoke, suffocating and stale, tweaked at her nose, made her eyes tear. She blinked it away and summoned a faint smile. "I believe in you. And I'll be here for you in whatever way you need. You're not like your father, Amanda. Or your mother. You're stronger than they are—and you're mine."

The last part felt vaguely manipulative, but a little manipulation wasn't always a bad thing, as long as it helped. If Amanda knew she had to stay clean for someone else, she would do it. And so would Olivia.

Now she kissed Amanda on the lips, the contact so light it was barely detectable, weightless as a feather in the breeze. Still, she tasted blood when she tucked the kiss onto her tongue with her bottom lip. Amanda touched her own mouth apologetically, swiping at the seeping cut with the side of her hand, though Olivia hadn't flinched—Amanda was as much a part of her as the blood in her veins, the heart in her chest.

"How 'bout I get cleaned up," Amanda said softly, after a few moments of gazing silently into each other's eyes, saying things that couldn't be spoken out loud, only intuited. "Wash off this stink so you don't have to keep smelling it. We can talk some more in bed, if you want? And I just mean talk, not—"

"I know."

"You wanna . . . " Amanda gestured toward the shower, curtained in gray ombré that resembled a foggy landscape, but she withdrew her hand hastily, as if it had drifted too close to a fire. "Pro'ly not. Never mind."

Wordlessly, Olivia unfurled the blanket from around their waists, tossed it on top of the hamper lid, and eased out of her fiancée's lap. She helped Amanda to her feet—to her credit, she didn't groan, though her legs were probably stiff from supporting Olivia all that time—and made sure she was sturdy before turning around. Her back to Amanda, Olivia swept her hair over one shoulder and waited.

"You sure? You don't have to." Amanda's voice was small and wavering, a candle flame guttering in the dark. But the light was still burning. She touched Olivia's back, first above the bra clasp, then below it, soothing the skin with her fingertips; it sounded like she had kissed them beforehand. The knobs to the dresser hadn't been painful, but those were the same spots they pressed against.

"I know I don't have to." Olivia gazed over her shoulder, meeting Amanda's eye quietly, tenderly. "It's what I want."

They took turns undressing each other, neither of them lingering longer than necessary, though each clasp was undone with the care of a seamstress altering a bridal gown, each strap gliding free of their bodies as fluid as silk. They undressed like shy young lovers about to see each other nude for the first time.

The leggings fell into a puddle around Olivia's ankles, and Amanda knelt to draw them off, lifting one foot at a time to remove the hems, both socks going with them. She took Olivia's panties down next, guiding them from hips to thighs, calves to feet, her hands caressing but not wandering, her gaze at a respectful level in spite of the angle. Eyes locked on Olivia's, she rose to full height and stepped from her own underwear when Olivia peeled them down her backside and let them drop to the floor.

The last item that remained was the Breitling. Amanda lifted the wrist wearing it, her hands curled lightly around either side of the strap, holding Olivia's arm like it was fragile, a rare and delicate artifact. She'd done that for a long time after the shoulder surgery as well. "I'm so sorry my mama broke your watch," she said thickly, and turned Olivia's hand over to kiss the heel of her palm before unbuckling the strap below it. "And for the awful stuff she said to you. None of it was true, you know that, right?"

Olivia knew no such thing. The reason Beth Anne's words cut so deep was because they were at least partially true. Serena hadn't loved her, not really. Not the way a mother was supposed to love her daughter; the way Olivia loved Matilda and Jesse. For whatever reason, she wasn't meant to experience that kind of unconditional maternal love herself. She'd resigned herself to it long ago, and nothing Beth Anne had said or done contradicted that. It's just the way it was.

"You don't have to apologize for her, love," Olivia said, intentionally skipping over the last question. She waited for Amanda to deposit the watch on the granite countertop, safely away from the sink, then turned her gently by the shoulder and released her hair from the ponytail ring. It fell in a swish of long, golden locks and a smoke-signal whiff of tobacco.

She didn't flinch away; it was amazing how quickly humans adapted to even the most disagreeable conditions. (A few more days with Lewis, who knows what she would have grown accustomed to?) Before Amanda could press any further about her mother's belligerence, Olivia caught her by the hand and led her towards the shower, lightly urging, "Come on. Let's wash off some of tonight."

The water was bracing and much too hot, but neither of them tried to adjust it, only sucked air sharply through clenched teeth, hissing like roaches as they traded places beneath the punishing jets. That too became tolerable after awhile, and Olivia took the brunt of it, letting it pelt her back like artillery fire as she lathered Amanda's hair in coconut-scented shampoo; peeled away the flap of gauze that hung by a thread of soggy medical tape, and soaped down the detective's alabaster skin, so pale a blue cast of veins was visible underneath; and massaged at the knots she found in the small, bird-boned shoulders, tight as fists.

A bit of muscle tone had been lost in the past few weeks, a few pounds gained, softening Amanda around the edges and giving her belly a vulnerable, unformed look, like dough that hadn't risen. Excluding the ghastly scar, it was what Olivia imagined her fiancée's abdomen might resemble in the earliest stages of pregnancy. She rested her palm there for one fleeting second, before smoothing away the errant suds that tried to surpass the aura of pink flesh around the freshly laid scab.

When it was Olivia's turn, she closed her eyes and finally allowed the tears to fall. Silently and only while Amanda was behind her, working the shampoo into her hair with a touch so tender it made her yearn—for what, she didn't know. Something well beyond her grasp.

The good thing about crying in the shower was that no one could tell the difference between water and tears, but when Amanda turned her around to rinse, she kept her eyes shut tight and rubbed them ruthlessly, ensuring any redness had an explanation. She only opened them once Amanda guided her out of the spray and drizzled a glob of body wash into the pink pouf that hung next to the soapy blue one on the shower caddy. (She suspected Amanda of getting the mesh sponges mixed up most of the time, but tonight she made an effort and Olivia appreciated the gesture.)

If the eyes gave Olivia away, Amanda didn't notice. She was too busy feeling guilty about the hickeys, gazing sadly at them while she swept the pouf from shoulder to shoulder in an inverted arc, no higher than the clavicle. She touched the backs of her fingers to the side of Olivia's neck, looked up with misty blue eyes—water or tears, impossible to say—and mouthed, "I'm sorry."

"I know," Olivia whispered, and let her eyes drift shut again as the blonde went on apologizing with every caress, down the length of her body; every press of the palm—above her left breast, at the slope of one hip, over a mystery bruise on her thigh—as if there were healing in its touch.

And maybe there was. Olivia had never felt so loved and cherished as she did right then, Amanda taking care of her without expectation of anything further. It was almost more intimate than lovemaking, more sensual than a kiss, and she trembled with it by the time Amanda finished up, guiding the leftover soap from her body with a sweep of the hand.

Without asking why, Amanda held her for a long time after, their heads resting on each other's shoulders, until the water beat lukewarm around them. She finally cranked the knob behind them when Olivia started to shiver in earnest, and it was she who led Olivia from the shower now, she who patted Olivia down with a towel and used it to squeeze the moisture from her hair (so, so gently). Olivia reciprocated with another fresh towel from the basket on the counter, and after they had combed out their hair, gathered the undergarments that were scattered about like shed snake skin, and wrapped themselves in Downy-scented terry cloth, they headed for the bedroom.

Olivia had just turned from placing her watch on the dresser, avoiding a glance at the heart-shaped splotch of Merlot next to it, when she found Amanda, still clad only in a powder blue towel that absurdly brought out her eyes, kneeling behind her. Both knees were on the carpet, bottom resting on her heels, hands bowled in her lap, as if she came bearing frankincense or some other ancient perfume. She'd been there for a while, watching, crying. The tears sliced her cheeks with glistening strokes. Some of the swelling around her eye had gone down, a bruise the shade of a rotted apple beginning to form. It would only get darker now, but soon it would fade. Bruises always did.

"Will you still marry me, Liv?" Amanda asked, the quiver in her voice sounding fearful rather than like a welling of emotion. She raised up on her knees and reached for Olivia's left hand, tenting hers around it as if she were praying. She brought the steepled fingers to her chin, her expression as beseeching as a beggar woman's. "I swear to God, if you do, I will spend the rest of my life making up for tonight. I won't ever walk out on you again and I'll do my best to make sure I'm never the one who makes you cry. I know my word ain't worth much right now, but you have it. And all of me with it."

The situation rang familiar to Olivia. Not the proposal, but the begging forgiveness, the promises it would never happen again. She had picked herself up off the floor, put herself back together, and listened to those same sentiments from her mother more times than she could count—and every time she'd vowed never to fall for it again. From anyone. It was the reason she had such difficulty trusting people. It was the shadow she had lived under for years, like Amanda living under the one cast by her father.

What was it Olivia had said to her once? _Maybe it's time for you to come out from under that shadow._

Maybe it was time for Olivia to do the same. To trust.

"Yes," she said, and knelt down to be at Amanda's level, adding her free hand to the others, so that she too was praying. (And why not? Didn't she have the answer to her prayers right in front of her?) "Of course I'm still going to marry you, Amanda. You're the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. I'd be lost without you. You're my little pretty, remember?"

"Yeah, I am." Amanda's smile was lopsided from the split lip and bruised eye; it wavered like a distant shoreline through her tears. And after Olivia leaned in to kiss it, so softly they barely grazed lips, Amanda murmured, "I do."

**. . .**


	34. Chapter 33: The Straight and Narrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, we made it to part four. I can't believe how fast this fic is going by. I wish I had another 40 more chapters to post after the epilogue. :'/ Good news is the fourth and final cover can now be viewed right down there ↓↓↓. Hope y'all like it. I'm giving this chapter a **TW** for child sexual abuse and attempted suicide. **/TW** Looking forward to hearing what you guys think. Happy Monday.

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[ ](https://imgur.com/1xNji3C)

* * *

# PART IIII: GOD ONLY KNOWS

**. . .**

**CHAPTER 33** : The Straight and Narrow

* * *

"You want me to what?" Amanda eyed the proffered notebook as if it might be rigged with explosives set to detonate the moment she lifted the front flap.

It was just one of those Composition Books with the black and white marble cover, like she had used throughout high school—"college ruled," this one read; was that supposed to make her feel smarter?—but she had to force herself to reach over and snatch it up. The woman was looking at her like she was crazy. Hell, she probably was. Why else would she have agreed to come here?

 _For Liv_ , she reminded herself. _Because you would walk through fire to keep her. You'd bare your soul to a complete stranger if that's what it took. And for the kids, because you can't bear for them to look at you the way you looked at your daddy._

She made a good argument.

"I'd like for you to start keeping a journal," the woman repeated. Her name was Alexis Hanover, a real crackerjack psychologist, according to Dr. Lindstrom (not his exact words, but close enough). The most annoying thing about her was that Amanda kind of liked her. She had an easygoing manner and seemed to genuinely listen to the conversation, what little of it there had been so far. She also reminded Amanda of that actress from that TV show—it hadn't clicked just yet.

"You mean a diary? Like I'm twelve?" Amanda asked, and instantly felt a pang of guilt that made her wither against the couch, hugging the notebook to her stomach. She thought of Olivia's journal, voluminous with her faithful scribbling, the words flocking across the page, sharp-beaked and swift-winged. She thought of her own name, alone, abandoned by the group, at the top of an empty page. That would haunt her for a long time to come.

"Try to think of it as more of a talking point for these sessions," said Dr. Hanover. She had returned to the lounge chair, which was positioned too far away from the couch, if you asked Amanda. (It made her feel as though she was on stage.) The doctor leaned forward, elbows on the knees of her pencil skirt. "Or a way to organize your thoughts beforehand."

"So . . . homework?" Amanda tried to laugh it off, but no doubt about it, she was being a little shit. _Deflecting_ , Hanover would probably call it. She couldn't help it. By now, it was a natural reflex, like blinking during a sneeze or ducking from a punch. Just one of the many reasons she needed therapy in the first place.

The doctor had her work cut out for her with Detective Rollins.

"Look, Amanda." Hanover shifted to the edge of her seat, palms flat together and arrowed in front of her, faintly chopping the air as she made her point. "I'm here to help you, but I can't do that if you won't talk to me. This is our second session, and you've told me next to nothing about yourself. So far we've discussed your fiancée, her job, her PTSD, and the children you share with her. I've met Captain Benson, and she's lovely, but I want to know how _you_ feel about those things."

Amanda's leg had started to bounce, the ball of her foot poised on the floor, heel jiggling as frantically as a Morse code operator tapping out a distress signal on a telegraph key. Powerless to stop it, she pressed the notebook against her lap, trying to at least mask some of the quaking. "Do I have to show you what I write?" she asked, inwardly cursing her childish voice and the childish question.

"Only if you choose to. You're free to write candidly and honestly about anything that comes to mind, and no one but you ever needs to read it. If it sparks an idea for something you'd like to talk about and you do decide to bring it along, that works too." Dr. Hanover smiled gently, managing not to look patronizing as she did so. It actually appeared as though she cared. "This can be a safe space for you. It doesn't have to be intimidating or frightening."

 _Easy for you to say, you're not the one in the hot seat_ , Amanda thought, even as she forced a smile. Until her relationship with Olivia, she hadn't known what a safe space felt like, or if such a thing existed. Now she knew for certain that it did—and it was in Olivia's arms.

"I gamble," she heard herself blurt, her brain fully unaware of what her mouth planned to say. "Or I used to. I'm in G.A. . . . that's Gamblers—" The doctor nodded her understanding, so Amanda skipped ahead. "I kinda fell off the wagon a few weeks ago. Guess that's why I'm here. Part of it, anyway."

"Well," said the doctor, sitting back as if she'd been hit with a heavy gust of wind. "That's a pretty big topic to get into this late in the session, but I would definitely like to hear more about it. Can we continue that discussion next week? Or I can schedule something sooner if you feel it's urg—"

"Next week's good." Amanda started to gather her things, then realized all she had was the composition book, already in hand, and her coat, on a hook by the door. She got to her feet, the notebook flapping like an unruly flag at a car dealership as she gestured with it, making a beeline for the coat hook. "I'm going to meetings and I haven't had anymore slips, so it's not an emergency. Just thought I should mention it."

Why, oh why, had she mentioned it?

"I'm glad you did. It sounds like something you're wanting to work on. Amanda, hey." Hanover waited for Amanda to look up from bundling into her coat as if she were FDNY, on her way to a four-alarm fire. "That's a good thing."

By the time the doctor had written out a reminder card for their next appointment, Amanda practically revisited her days on the track team, accepting the card like it was a baton and all but sprinting out the door. Tucked safely inside her Jeep a few moments later, finally able to breathe again, she pinched the business card between her fingers, about to rip it in two.

Then she thought of the text from Olivia that had popped up on her phone screen while she sat in the waiting room outside Dr. Hanover's office:

_Proud of you._

She bookmarked the reminder between the notebook pages, set them aside on the passenger seat, and headed towards home.

**. . .**

_1/26/21_

_I'm supposed to start writing in this thing. No idea what I'm supposed to say. Liv told me to just write whatever I feel, so here it is: this is stupid._

_Trying not to use that word anymore. She hates it and I don't want the kids picking it up. But come on. How is writing a bunch of crap down going to help? How is talking about a bunch of crap going to help?_

_Good news is I've been back to work for a couple weeks, stomach is healed (kind of), and I doubt I'll need therapy very long._

_Are you supposed to end these? I don't know._

_Over and out._

* * *

The theme song to _Jeopardy!_ was playing in Olivia's head. She traded weight to the opposite elbow, keenly aware of the padded arm of the chair sinking in; of the creaky leather beneath her. She was keenly aware of just about everything in the room, but especially the man who stared keenly back at her. He had been doing that for a full forty-five seconds—she'd been leaning on her watch arm, the left, until it started to ache—and all she could think of was that damn quiz show ditty.

_Dun duh-dun-dun dun . . . dun . . . dun . . . gong gong!_

"I know you think I'm too blinded by love or—" Olivia cast around for another explanation, her eyes landing right back on the watch, the hand wearing it inserted between her knees. " . . . or past abuse to make a rational decision, but that's not true. She's proven herself. She's going to therapy and G.A. meetings, and she's even started to open up a little more with me about the abuse she witnessed during childhood."

Christ, it had been painful to listen to that. After showering together the night of that godawful argument, after several minutes of clinging together on their knees in the bedroom, they had moved the clinging over to the bed, where they held each other and talked until 6 AM. Olivia had called in sick to work, and it wasn't a lie: she was half sick with a hangover—from the wine and the roller-coaster emotions of the previous evening—and a migraine, but even more so from hearing Amanda detail the screaming, the beatings, the aftermath. The fear, the hate, and despite it all, the love she'd still harbored for her father. "Mean Dean," she called him.

The detective barely cried when she spoke about it. Only towards the end, admitting that she'd loved him—admired him, for a time—even after watching him throttle Beth Anne, had she looked up at Olivia with tears in her eyes and asked, "How sick is that?" And then, over and over, weeping until she went limp in Olivia's arms: "I don't wanna be like him, Liv. I just wanna be good like you."

It was no sicker than craving your mother's love and approval after she'd beaten and strangled you, Olivia wanted to tell her. No sicker than being angry that your mother had ruined the one chance for you to speak to your father, her rapist. Daydreaming that he might still have been a loving father to you, regardless of what he was to other women—a monster.

 _I'm not good_ , she wanted to tell Amanda. _I just do good things to make up for what I really am. A mistake. A monster's child._

But the words had stuck in her throat like flies on a sticky paper strip, and after calling the precinct with Amanda's cell—her earrings and three hundred and fifty dollars fell out of the pockets when she upended the jeans—she had returned to bed to find her fiancée deeply asleep.

"I'm sorry, what?" Olivia asked now, realizing she hadn't heard anything Dr. Lindstrom was saying for the past several moments. She flicked the hair from her shoulders, as if that might clear her mind or at least her ears. He probably thought she was going deaf, as often as she asked him to repeat himself.

"Where did you go just now?" Lindstrom circled the air with the tip of his pen, indicating the space above her head.

Or maybe he just thought she was losing it.

"I, um— I was thinking about the awful things Amanda saw and overheard as a child." Olivia cleared her throat and glanced at the mug of water on the side table. She was extremely thirsty, but she didn't reach for it. Somehow, it felt weak to need water in front of him—or any man.

"And?" Lindstrom's eyes had followed hers to the mug, then sprang back up like a yo-yo as he asked the question. Why did he have to be so damn observant?

Olivia crossed her legs in the opposite direction, leaning away from the table, the water. "And I don't want to make it about me. It's her trauma, not mine. She's been dealing with mine for the past year, it's time to focus on hers."

"It affects you as well, though, doesn't it? The recent troubles you had in your relationship were related to her trauma, yes?"

"Some of it," Olivia said measuredly, and caught herself leaning farther back from the doctor, though there was a distance of at least five feet between them already. The man had helped her through some of her darkest moments and knew more of her secrets than anyone else, except Amanda, and she was treating him as if he were a nosy coworker.

Fine, he wanted the full story? It was the same one she'd been telling for years.

"But it was because of me, too. My trauma. If I had been a little more trusting about the bank account thing, instead of worrying I was . . . I don't know, losing my independence, then maybe none of the other things would have happened. Amanda wouldn't have gotten shot, I wouldn't have contacted her mother, and Beth Anne wouldn't have been around to stir things up for both of us . . . "

"What is it that she stirred up for you in particular?"

Oh God, he was really going to make her say it again.

"Memories of my own mother," she sighed, letting both hands drop heavily into her lap. She sought out the watch with her fingers, avoiding a peek down at it, and nudged it side to side on her wrist. She imagined she could feel the inscriptions on the back, two of them now, warm as breath against her skin. "How she mistreated me. How much she— she hated me."

Lindstrom tipped his head, a gesture that might indicate sympathy, but could just as easily have been an unconscious twitch. Hopefully the latter. "I don't believe your mother hated you, Olivia."

"Well, she sure as hell didn't love me. And that's just as bad. You try explaining to a four-year-old why her mother won't hold her, or tell a seven-year-old that she had to find her way home from school by herself because mommy loves her but forgot to pick her up. Tell a twelve-year-old who has to hide her bruises at school that her mother didn't mean to hurt her. Tell a fourteen-year-old who wakes up in the middle of the night with the guy her mother brought home to screw standing over top of—"

Shit. Olivia had entirely blocked out that last memory until it was tumbling from her lips. She grasped her knees so hard her knuckles blanched, lungs likewise grasping at air. The guy hadn't done anything; hadn't gotten the chance. She was frozen beneath the covers, pretending to be asleep while his hand crept up her thigh ("Hey, little cutie, I know you're awake under there," he whispered), when Serena burst in with a baseball bat. He wasn't the first of her mother's drunken one-nighters to look sideways at Olivia, nor would he be the last.

You try explaining to a child that her mother was too drunk to protect her from the predators she invited into their home.

"You've never mentioned this before," said Lindstrom, frowning and setting aside his legal pad, as if she had startled him out of note taking. All these years, and she could still surprise him. "What did the man do to you?"

A question for the ages.

"He didn't do anything. My mother . . . " Olivia gave a vague flit of her hand. "Chased him away before he got the chance. And before you say that proves she cared, she also accused me of trying to steal her 'boyfriends' whenever something like that happened."

"That happened to you more than once, then?"

Had she said that? Dammit. The conversation had gotten away from her. She preferred to be in control of these therapy sessions, deciding which and how much information to divulge, not recovering memories by a slip of the tongue. If she had buried that, what else was there waiting for her beneath the surface?

"Not that precisely, no," she said, choosing each word with caution. She trapped her hands between her thighs to prevent them from doing the talking for her. "But a lot of the guys she brought home were just strangers she met in a bar. Some of them were more interested in me than in her, and she blamed me for it."

Olivia knew the next question without the doctor even asking; she had heard it so many times—from Lindstrom, from nurses eyeing her with concern, from countless eerily perceptive criminals, from Amanda—it barely made her flinch anymore. Barely. "None of them raped me. One came after me, I got away. Another . . . fondled my breasts. One guy said some dirty things. But that's not whu—" Her throat sealed up suddenly with a harsh glottal stop, forcing her to reach for the mug of water. Weakness or not, lukewarm or not, she gulped several mouthfuls.

"That's not what I'm here to discuss," she said levelly, when she found her voice again. She placed the mug aside before her hands could start fiddling with it and end up dousing her lap. A mate to the mug—from a set of four, each sporting a realistic tropical fish decal on the side—sat on the end table next to Lindstrom. He had the clown triggerfish, she the French angelfish. She focused on her fish, noteworthy for its neon yellow markings against midnight-blue, and spoke as if she were addressing it, instead of the doctor. "I've dealt with all that . . . "

 _Liar_ , she thought, feeling almost guilty with the fish staring back, bug-eyed and maloccluded. So maybe she hadn't dealt with it, but she had survived much worse, had been treated for much worse, and she could work through those long-forgotten childhood upsets in a snap. There were other more pressing matters to resolve.

"Or I will. But I came here to talk about my relationship with Amanda. I need to hear that it's going to be all right. That she and I can make it through anything together, and I'm not rushing into a marriage that won't last." Olivia gestured at Lindstrom like a mugger demanding the cash be handed over faster. "So. Tell me."

The doctor had the audacity to chuckle, as if he thought her facetious. He was one of a select few who could get away with playing the calm, reasonable sage while Olivia fretted over things beyond her control; the other one was Amanda. "You know I can't tell you that, Olivia," he said, taking such a brief sip from the clown triggerfish, it was a wonder he got anything besides air. "No one can. And we've discussed how difficult relationships can be when both sides experience a significant amount of trauma, as you and Amanda have since childhood. Even one trauma survivor in a relationship can sometimes be too much for a partner to handle."

Olivia let her vision drift out of focus, until the yellow flecks on her angelfish elongated and blurred, becoming a constellation of distant golden stars. Far out of reach. "Yes . . . " She hadn't heard anything she didn't already know, but her heart and her shoulders felt twice as heavy. Arms sagging at her sides, she nodded blankly. She would always be too much for anyone to handle.

"But by the same token, it also makes you uniquely suited to one another. You and she share some very similar experiences. You understand each other's feelings, your needs and limitations, better than most people could." Lindstrom shifted the notes back into his lap, but rolled the pen between his fingers instead of writing with it. He wasn't a nervous tapper, just a twirler, as if the wheels in his brain were spinning on the outside. "I think it's a good sign that you're both willing to work on your issues by seeking treatment. That shows commitment, strength of character, maturity . . . all qualities that contribute to a healthy, balanced relationship. You clearly care very deeply for each other, and you've made it through insurmountable odds together before. Numerous times."

The angelfish constellation started to look a little more like a glimmer of hope, and Olivia brought her eyes back into focus, this time on Lindstrom. "We've definitely done that," she said, more to herself than the doctor. Her smile, though faint, was also directed inward.

"It is still important to take time for yourself and not put each other's recovery before your own," he said in a serious tone, ducking his gaze slightly, as if he were a teacher who suspected her of not paying attention in class. "And to remember that there may be moments when you're both struggling with your pasts, which can make it difficult to be supportive and nurturing, even when you want to be."

Yes, well. That warning would have been far more helpful a few weeks earlier, while Olivia and Amanda were in a downward spiral of PTSD, depression, and addiction. She nodded anyway, to show she was listening. Unpleasant as some of his advice could be to hear, he seldom steered her wrong and she truly did value his opinion.

But if he had cautioned her against marrying Amanda, she would have ignored him completely, that much she knew. This visit was merely a way to air out the doubts that she couldn't express elsewhere—the doubts she'd had in nearly every relationship she'd been in. Unlike those relationships, she was prepared to do whatever it took to make this one last.

"It looks like our time is almost up," said Lindstrom, with a glance at his watch. "Was there anything else you were hoping to discuss?"

She hadn't told him every detail about the fight: the hair pulling, the angry sex, how it aroused her when Amanda got rough. And she hadn't brought up the drinking or double-dosing of her anxiety meds, but that could wait till next time. The wine rack at home had been empty since that night—she didn't even pick up a fresh bottle for New Year's—and if it came down to it, she would ask Amanda to monitor the pills. But it wouldn't. Olivia knew when to quit.

"I think we covered everything," she said, and took one last sip from the French angelfish.

**. . .**

_January 28, 2021_

_I'm lying to my therapist again. That always ends well for me. Ha. But it's not so much a lie as . . . being selective with the truth. And it's a truth I'm just figuring out for myself, so I need a little time to process. I hadn't forgotten that she tried to commit suicide, but I had forgotten about the men._

_Let me back up a bit. You see, when I was growing up, my mother brought home a lot of strange men for sex. I don't fault her for that—she had her reasons, namely a whopping case of untreated RTS, during a time when no one knew how to counsel rape victims or cared to try. The hospital staff was nasty to her when she gave birth to me, because unwed mothers were bad enough, but a girl who had gotten herself raped must be an even bigger whore. (She told me that story over our first glass of wine together.)_

_I was already seven or eight by the time courts began to acknowledge marital rape as a crime—Jesus Christ, I was twenty-five and a rookie before it was criminalized in every state. We didn't know how to treat victims by then, either. Sometimes we still don't._

_What I'm trying to say is, she had it rough. Part of me can understand why she did the things she did. And another part never will. So: the men._

_Some of them were nice. Unfortunately, the nice ones didn't hang around as long as the bad ones (and by that, I mean hours, occasionally into the next morning, but seldom longer). What I told Lindstrom was true—none of them raped me. I was eleven when one of them tried._

_He came back to the apartment after I got out of school. Serena must have mentioned I was a latchkey kid. I let him in, as kids back then tended to do. I can't remember his excuse for returning, how he convinced me to sit in his lap, or how I got free when he held me down and tried to take off my pants. I just remember kicking him in the balls like Serena taught me and running next door to Mrs. Brewster, the elderly widow who babysat me until Serena saw how close we'd gotten and wouldn't let me stay with her anymore. But that's another story._

_He was gone by the time she got home from work and dragged me by the arm to our apartment. I never told her about what he'd done—what he tried to do—and he never came back. I never told her about any of them, except the ones she found out by herself._

_The guy who fondled my breasts doesn't have a face. At least not when I try to picture it. He's just hands, the fingers creeping up my shirt like spiders. I had developed enough to wear a bra by then, so I must have been around . . . thirteen? Fourteen? I guess he got all he wanted, because the memory ends there._

_The worst one was not long after she choked me. She went on a bender and I didn't see her for two full days, until she came stumbling in with him, yelled at me for watching MTV ("That will rot your brain," as if her liver wasn't rotting by the glassful), and told me to get my ass to bed. I was in my pajamas, and he must have liked what he saw. He cornered me when I came out of my room a while later for a drink of water. She'd fallen asleep without finishing him off, he said. Would I mind doing the rest?_

" _You're a sexy little thing. Way better than that old drunk. Cooze is as stretched out as a used rubber. You never heard that before? Cooze? It means pussy. Bet yours is real pretty, just like your mouth. You wanna suck on it? How old are you, honey?"_

_What I didn't remember until therapy yesterday was that he had exposed himself, grabbed my hand, and rubbed it up and down his dick while he said all that to me. I was half-asleep and my voice was hoarse from the choking, so I couldn't really scream. I think my hand was still on his penis when she caught us; I know I was crying. I expected her to go crazy, maybe kill both of us. I at least expected her to yell at him and throw him out, the way she did with the guy I saw her fellating . . ._

_You know what she did instead?_

_She said, "Thanks for warming him up for me, hon," and led him away to the bedroom. I went back to bed and told myself it was all a dream, and it worked so well, I'm only now realizing the extent of what happened; only now making the connection to what happened next._

_I got home from school the following day and there was a note from her on the table:_

Olivia,

I'm sorry. You deserved a better mother. You're a good girl. Don't blame yourself for any of this.

S.B.

_She was unconscious in the tub when I found her, an empty bottle of sleeping pills bobbing around in the water, a glass of wine on the floor beside her. I guess she wanted to go out in style, and a bottle of Smirnoff didn't quite fit the image of the sophisticated, tragic professor, dead at thirty-nine. God, thirty-nine. A baby._

_I don't think she ever forgave me for saving her that day. There were a lot of things she never forgave me for._

_I haven't decided when or if I'll tell Lindstrom that story, but I'm going to tell Amanda. She should know that suicidal tendencies run on both sides of my family. I would never do that to her or the kids. But she should know._

**. . .**


	35. Chapter 34: There But for the Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to post this earlier in the day, but I got distracted voting early (YEAH BABY). Sorry about the delay. References to several Little Devils in this chapter, most notably my oft plagiarized classic "In the Night, In the Dark" and "Stalker." I meant to include a little guide in my author's notes pointing y'all to which Devilishverse fic certain chapters derived from, but obviously that plan fell through about 30+ chapters ago, lol. I guess if you're curious, just ask and I can fill you in. **TW** for talk of abuse, rape, and attempted suicide. **/TW**

**CHAPTER 34** : There But for the Grace

**. . .**

For several seconds, the only sound was the squelch of the sponge at her shoulder, the trickle of water at her back. Why had she suggested a bath? It had seemed like a romantic gesture at the time, but after listening to that story, it felt inappropriate and insensitive.

"I'm sorry," Olivia said, her voice as gentle as a cooing dove, though startling Amanda all the same. The captain squeezed the shoulder she'd just sponged off, and palmed away the droplets riding the waves of Amanda's spine. "I shouldn't have told you like this. I didn't even think about the bathtub connection until I got to that part."

"No, I'm glad you told me. It's just a lot to take in." Amanda reached up and caught Olivia's hand as it gathered the ribbon of wet blonde hair from her shoulder to switch it to the opposite side. She glanced back with an earnest expression, heart in her eyes. "I'm so sorry you went through all that. You were one tough kid."

The "all that" to which Amanda referred consisted of fifteen-year-old Olivia being attacked and strangled nearly to death by her mother, who had basically just admitted moments before to not loving her; not being taken to a hospital to have her injuries treated, though her head was bleeding, her neck deeply bruised (and damned if that didn't make Amanda feel guilty as hell, even if the hickeys were long gone); a few days later, being sexually abused by a complete stranger whom her mother then bedded; and a day after that, finding her mother half-dead of an overdose in their bathtub.

Any one of those traumas alone would be too much for most kids—or adults, for that matter—but Olivia had survived all of them, one right after the other. And so many more. Sometimes Amanda had to stop and marvel at how strong her fiancée truly was, and to mourn Olivia's lost childhood, lost innocence.

"So were you, love," Olivia said, still speaking in a tone as soft as her touch, which she glided up and down the length of Amanda's arms. The term "bathe" could only be applied very loosely to what they had done thus far: soak in hot, soapy bathwater, occasionally trailing it over each other's skin with their fingers. The sponge had already fallen by the wayside, in favor of the long, languid strokes of Olivia's palms.

"Hm?" Amanda was paying attention, although the soothing caresses did make it difficult, especially when they moved to her sides, occasionally coasting along her belly. It was healed now. She still couldn't do sit ups, any type of strenuous exercise or lifting, and she got winded going up a flight of stairs, but Olivia's touch she could handle. (The return to sex had been gradual, almost too tentative for either of them to get off; but now it was getting good again, maybe even better than before. They had crossed the line and survived it. In a way, it was freeing.)

"You said I was a tough kid. But so were you." Olivia wrapped her arms loosely around Amanda's middle, urging her to lean back—which she did—and lightly resting chin to shoulder. "You survived some really horrific stuff too."

"Yeah, and look at what a success story I turned out to be," Amanda said, attempting blitheness but falling short at forced humor. She leaned her head against Olivia's shoulder, gazing up into sad brown eyes. "You did, though. You went through all that and didn't become an addict or a mean, abusive asshole or any of that stuff."

Therapy hadn't quite kicked in yet, it seemed. Amanda still felt like a piece of shit.

"That's debatable," Olivia murmured, her eyes momentarily glazed over as she stared straight ahead at the faucet.

"Huh?"

Head twitching side to side, Olivia shook herself back to reality. "I've been just shy of a drinking problem for years now. I can control it, but . . . if not for you and the kids? I don't know. And I was being careless with my meds. So . . . stupid."

Olivia had never expressly stated why she disliked the word _stupid_ so much, but from the pained look on her face as she said it, Amanda could pretty much guess. That was the expression of someone who had heard that word used against her in the past. And now she associated it with the things Amanda had used against her during their argument—the wine, the pills. Things she had no reason to feel guilty about; Amanda didn't believe for one second that Olivia was near alcoholism or becoming a pill head. As contradictory as it sounded, that just wasn't in her DNA.

It wasn't in her soul.

"Darlin', huh-uh." Amanda reached up to rest a hand at the back of Olivia's head. Her hair was held up by a hairpin, dry except for a few loose strands that clung to her damp chest and shoulders in graceful curlicues, like filigree. "That's not who you are. If I made you feel that way with what I said—"

"That's not it. I mean, that's not why I told you about what happened with my mother." Olivia nibbled her bottom lip for a moment, pensive and maybe a little fretful. "I just . . . think you should know what you're getting into with me. Because I know what it's like to worry that someone you love is going to hurt herself, and I don't want that for you. I would never do that to you or our children.

"And when you saw your name in my journal . . . I just needed to talk to you. I had so many things I wanted to say, and I thought writing them to you would help me sort it all out. But I couldn't think clearly because of the wine and the—" She formed a vague shape underwater with her hands, then pressed them flat against Amanda's belly. "The words wouldn't come. Then I fell asleep. It must have looked awful when you found me like that. I'm so sorry, my love."

It had looked awful, and in the weeks since, Amanda had twice woken from a recurring nightmare—the same one she'd had months earlier: trying to rescue Olivia from some grotesque humanoid creature (the first was Orion; the second, Calvin; and Amanda herself was the third), watching her fall from a cliff, reaching her to find she was already dead, eyes gone. She hadn't roused Olivia these past two times. Hadn't wanted to explain why she was crying. And now she wanted to bring it up even less. Olivia felt bad enough as it was.

"It just freaked me out at first, when I couldn't get you to wake up," Amanda said, her fingers drifting past the bun to trail idly along the nape of Olivia's neck. She felt a small shudder work its way through the warm, stalwart frame behind her, and she smiled in spite of herself. "I figured out pretty quick that you were breathing, and it was fine after that. Everything turned out okay, darlin'. Quit worrying that pretty head."

Olivia sniffed in amusement, or that was how it sounded, until she reached up to wipe at her cheeks with the back of her wrist. But if there had been any tears, they were gone when Amanda looked up. "I really am sorry," said the captain, turning her face towards Amanda and placing the softest of kisses on the apple of one cheek. "It won't happen again."

"I know." Amanda turned a little more and caught the lips on their second descent, fingers sifting into lush locks as she drew Olivia in for a deep, longing kiss that left them both sighing. Only once they had parted and she gazed into Olivia's honest, open eyes did Amanda decide to tell the story.

She wanted to tell Olivia all her stories, she found, quite without warning.

"I've kinda been through that before," she said, beginning more tentatively than she would have preferred. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a habit she was starting to pick up from Olivia. Whether or not it helped, she wasn't sure, though it did give her a moment to gather her thoughts. "Finding someone like that."

"Who, sweetheart?" Olivia asked the question as if she already knew the answer, but her face was a study in patience and concern. She stroked the backs of her fingers along Amanda's jawline, waiting, soothing. She made it so easy.

"Mama." Who else, Amanda thought, swallowing hard. She hadn't gotten any better at talking about traumatic experiences or her feelings yet. It would take time to learn, of course, as most new endeavors did, but she doubted it would ever come as second nature to her, this sharing. "I was really young, maybe seven or eight, so it's not a real clear memory."

Olivia nodded. "Of course."

"Seven, I think. Yeah, 'cause it was right after Kimmie's fourth birthday. I remember she'd gotten this doll she was carrying with her when we—" A lump had formed in the back of Amanda's throat and she gulped it down, cutting short that part of the preface. She was just stalling, anyway. "Mama and Daddy'd been having a big fight downstairs. I can still hear the things they were screamin' at each other. 'You screwed my best friend, you sonuvabitch.' 'Your best friend's an even bigger lyin' whore than you.'"

"Jesus." Olivia looped an arm around Amanda, combing her bangs aside as an excuse to continue stroking her forehead. Eventually she rested her palm there, as if checking Amanda for a fever.

"That was before the fights got really bad. They mostly just yelled and threw things back then. He didn't start whalin' on her and . . . " Amanda looked up from beneath Olivia's soft, warm hand, into her soft, warm eyes, and she couldn't finish the sentence. About how she used to hear her daddy raping her crying, injured mother in the next room. About how she did nothing to stop it.

Olivia didn't need to know that—not when she'd been forced to watch an old woman be raped; to listen as a teenage girl went through the same hell. Not when she'd been groped and degraded in front of a little girl who grew up to do the very same thing to her; not when Calvin had jacked off into her breasts while Amanda was in the next room.

Doing nothing.

"Well, it didn't get worse until I got a little older," she said, and that was true enough. The rest could be dealt with in therapy. "But that night was pretty bad. Then Kimmie woke up and had to pee. I always tried to keep her quiet when they were like that, but she had to go so bad she started cryin'. Daddy had stormed out already, so I figured it'd be okay . . . "

Amanda felt Olivia's muscles tense around her, preparing for what she must already know was coming. The captain would have been nineteen at the time of Amanda's story. Already well-versed in the various and sundry ways your parents could fuck you up for life.

"She was scared to walk through the dark hallway by herself, so I went with her." Amanda captured Olivia's free hand beneath the water, kneading absently at the knuckles, the palm, between the fingers. When she realized it was the hand that had needed stitches several weeks earlier, she released it instantly. "Sorry."

"Didn't hurt. Go on."

There was no pressure in the prompting, just a genuine desire to listen, to console. It was the way Olivia spoke to victims, but Amanda found she didn't mind. Her fiancée didn't hold the victims like this, stroking their foreheads, touching a light kiss to their cheeks. Her heart didn't beat in time with theirs, each rise and fall of her chest reminding them to breathe. And she couldn't be there later, to put them back together when they fell apart.

"We got to the bathroom, and I opened the door . . . " In her mind's eye, Amanda saw the darkened door swing wide into bright light and streets of blood. It had actually been the cobalt blue floor tiles, with crimson streamlets soaking into the grout, forming an expanding network that had looked like a roadway to her seven-year-old mind. "Mama was passed out on the floor. There was so much blood. Maybe I remember more than there actually was, 'cause I was little. The way rooms and stuff look bigger when you're a kid? But it seemed like a lot. Kimmie got scared and dropped her new doll in it."

This time the flash was an image of Kim's naked baby doll, its bald head and cloth body covered in blood, plastic blue eyes blinking up at her. Not long after that, Amanda's aversion to dolls had made itself known. She'd loaded up the trash can with the corpses of Raggedy Ann and Andy, Strawberry Shortcake, Rainbow Brite, and a generic Cabbage Patch stolen from her cousin. Kim, right at her heels as usual, had dragged each doll to safety and littered her entire bed with them. Poor kid had slept in a mosh pit of dolls for months afterwards.

"She slashed her wrists?" Olivia asked, gently keeping the narrative on track, flowing. Once you stopped or got distracted, it was twice as hard to start again. And sometimes having the blanks filled in helped, when the words were too painful to speak aloud yourself. "Your mama."

"Yeah, um—" Amanda cleared her throat, blinking hard. Hearing Olivia's soft, sympathetic voice say _mama_ was almost too much. "She . . . she used one of Daddy's razors. I think it was mostly for show. She didn't cut very deep. If she'd done it right, she would've bled out before he found her. That's what she wanted—him to come back and find her, so he'd hafta rescue her and feel sorry for her."

Olivia tucked in her bottom lip, the top one pursed delicately, pensively. She was choosing her words with care, as she did whenever a subject was especially sensitive or dicey. Whenever her response could be used against her. "And instead you had to do it," she provided, massaging Amanda's forehead with just her fingertips. "You were so little. That must have been really scary. I can see how that would make you angry at her."

"Didn't it make you angry at your mama?" Amanda gazed up wonderingly. The captain didn't have many positive things to say about her mother, but when she did speak of the deceased woman, it was seldom with acrimony. Moments ago she had described the horrific abuse she'd suffered at the hands of Serena, and yet she still didn't harbor the intense anger that Amanda felt for her own mother, who had never done anything worse than spank her.

"It mostly made me feel guilty," Olivia said, after a lengthy pause, a lick of her lips. "And sad. I thought it was my fault. That she hated me so much, she'd rather be dead than be my mother. I tried even harder to be perfect for her after that, but I met Daniel soon after, and . . . well, you know how that turned out."

Amanda nodded grimly. She hadn't forgotten Olivia's revelation about her first serious boyfriend, fiancé, and statutory rapist; Amanda had big plans for him, now that she was back to her old self, at least mobility-wise. "Yeah. God, baby, I'm so sorry."

"We were talking about you, love," Olivia whispered in Amanda's ear, hand cupped around her forehead again. It reminded Amanda vaguely of church, of prayer circles with hands laid upon the sick and the sinner alike, in hopes of healing, of forgiveness.

And here were the baptismal waters surrounding them. Amanda had lost faith in most of those practices long ago, but just the thought brought her comfort. The woman holding her always brought her so much comfort. "I get what you mean about blamin' yourself. I didn't understand what Mama had done for a while, but when I figured it out, I thought she did it because Kim and I were bad. She made us go to bed early that night because of the fight, and I'd gotten into trouble that day at school. Guess I got it into my head that it was all connected somehow."

"Sweetie," Olivia sighed, hugging her around the shoulders and rocking her side to side ever so slightly.

"Thought I'd done pretty good calling 911 when we found her like that. But she wasn't happy to see me at the hospital and when they finally let her come home, she didn't leave her room for a whole week." Amanda exhaled with a small huff, recalling a detail of the story that she'd forgotten due to disuse. "Her friend cooked all this food and brought it over to us, like Mama had died or somethin'. Come to think of it, she was probably the woman my daddy was screwing. One of them, anyway."

Allowing the conclusion to sink in, they sat in silence for a moment, not even the water daring to stir. Then Olivia breathed a soft, "Wow."

"No wonder your mom has a hard time believing a partner can be faithful," she added. And though it went unspoken and there was no accusation in Olivia's tone, Amanda heard the rest anyway: _No wonder you do, too_.

"Yeah, he messed her up pretty good. She probably would've tried to kill herself again, except he made her believe she couldn't. He yelled it at her a lot after that. How she was 'too stupid to even get that right.' Eventually, she just . . . "

Amanda shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished. She knew her mother had sustained severe psychological damage from years of Dean's abuse—Beth Anne hadn't just woken up one day and decided to let her husband beat her; he had broken her down bit by bit, pushing her to accept more and more, until he had full control—but it was easier to be angry with her than to feel pity. Amanda had pitied her for years and it didn't change a damn thing.

"When somebody says those things to you enough, you kinda start to believe they're true," Olivia said, confirming what Amanda had already suspected. The captain had her reasons for hating the word _stupid_.

"Your mama?"

"Mm."

Taking Olivia by the wrist, Amanda lowered that hand to her lips and kissed the palm before splaying it open on her chest. "Well, she was wrong, whatever she said. You're perfect, remember? Trust me, I know these things."

"I do trust you," Olivia said, a meaningful weight to the words as she notched her thumb and index finger to Amanda's chin, tilting it up for another soft kiss on the lips. With her free hand, she scooped up some of the tepid bathwater and spilled it down Amanda's front. "This bath, however, is not quite so perfect anymore. Why don't we slip into something a little . . . less revealing and see what's on Netflix? Or we can keep talking."

The captain had been extremely patient about letting Amanda decide when to bring up her past, how much she was willing to share, and not pressing for more. Two suicide attempts seemed like plenty for one night. They had the next thirty or forty years together to discuss their childhood traumas.

"Olivia Margaret Benson, did you just Netflix and chill me?" she asked, in her most scandalized Southern belle voice. The one that always earned her a smile—and sometimes a roll of the eyes—from her pretty bride-to-be.

This time she got a squint and pursed lips, but there was a twitch at the corners of the mouth that gave Olivia away. "That means sex, right?"

"Yes, darlin'." Amanda patted Olivia's wrist with the indulgence of one congratulating their grandmother for learning how to send a text message.

Olivia retaliated with a light splash of the bathwater, creating a miniature tidal wave that broke against Amanda's chest. "Then yes. I'm gonna Netflix and chill your brains out."

**. . .**

_1/30/21_

" _I'm gonna Netflix and chill your brains out." She cracks me up sometimes. And, dear Lord, she wasn't exaggerating. The filthy things that woman did to me . . . I'm still walking funny, let's just put it that way. I don't know what I unleashed, but it's sexy and exhilarating and a little bit scary. Fuck._

_Okay, time to get serious. My next appointment is in three days, and if I don't write something down soon, I'll probably sit there staring at Hanover like Cletus the slack-jawed yokel again._

_That talk with Liv got me thinking about all the stuff I heard (and saw) during Mama and Daddy's fights. Her throwing dishes and figurines—glass things that didn't even belong to him, because she was too scared to break his stuff. Him shoving her into the wall so hard it knocked down all the picture frames. And the sex right after._

_Sometimes she would beg him to stop, other times not. Those other times she sounded like she enjoyed it. How's a kid supposed to make sense of that? Fighting and fucking, fucking and fighting. No wonder Kim and I are so messed up._

_I don't know what any of that means or why it suddenly seems important. I'm not even sure I'll mention it in therapy. Maybe I'll start off with something simpler, like compulsive gambling or my insane jealousy and irrational anger. Ha ha._

_Case in point: Still bugs me that I don't know what kind of pass Alex made at Olivia. A kiss? A touch? And if so, where and for how long? I'm trying to let it go._

_Maybe I will mention that to Hanover._

_P.S. Sometimes I wonder how many Rollins kids are really out there. You tellin' me my daddy slept with anything in a skirt and there's not a few extra little Deans and Deanies running around Loganville? Come on now._

**. . .**


	36. Chapter 35: Let No Man Put Asunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad you guys are enjoying the snippets of journal entries. They're always a lot of fun to write. I don't think this chapter needs any trigger warnings, but I do want to clarify that a couple of the characters mentioned are canon on the show. Rebecca Hendrix (Mary Stuart Masterson) appeared in seasons 6, 7 and 8 of the series, and Rachel Wilson (Holly Robinson Peete) is the Vice officer who commits suicide in "The Longest Night of Rain" (episode 21.12). Just FYI so it doesn't seem like I'm pulling OCs out of thin air: they are established characters already, I just had some major headcanon explosions about Liv's attitude with Rebecca after rewatching those episodes a few months back, and I really wanted it to be Devilishcanon. Also, I almost forgot that there is another piece of... artwork to go with the next chapter. It's not a cover, but it's related to the chapter and I giggled a lot while making it. So, heads up. Enjoy the weekend, my friends.

## CHAPTER 35: Let No Man Put Asunder

**. . .**

It had to be kismet.

The earrings were worth almost the exact price of the new rings—one of them, anyway. Olivia paid for the mate out of pocket. She wasn't accustomed to dropping two thousand dollars on jewelry (four thousand altogether, with the money from the returned earrings) like it was nothing. She half-expected some sort of fanfare as she pushed her card into the chip reader and scribbled out her signature, but there was more ceremony in purchasing a Snickers from the gas station.

These were some damned expensive Snickers. But once Amanda had shown her the ring online, explaining why it suited her so perfectly ("You're like the rose in the middle, keeping me centered, always"), the deal was sealed. Olivia wanted it, not for the rose—although that was beautiful—but for the sapphires flanking it. They reminded her of Amanda's eyes. Together, the flower and the jewels, inextricably combined, were a perfect representation of both women.

Plus, the thought of seeing it on Amanda's finger, knowing the detective was finally hers, made Olivia practically giddy with excitement. It might have made her a little impulsive as well, she considered, as she returned the debit card to her purse and accepted the gift bag the clerk presented to her by its braided velvet handles.

But even in her spontaneity, she hadn't completely lost her head. The original rings, which she truly did love and would have gladly continued wearing despite the negative memories now attached, were past the return or exchange dates—but lots of people had separate engagement and wedding bands, right? She and Amanda could be those people, most of whom, true, were probably much wealthier; or they could find a jeweler who would give them cash back. That was something to be discussed later, when the time was right and money wasn't such a sore subject between them.

She really shouldn't have spent so much before the wedding, but she had a hefty savings built up, it was hers to do with as she pleased, and they weren't planning anything extravagant. Olivia had no family to invite and Amanda didn't want any of hers in attendance, so the guest list read a little like the start of a bad joke: Two cops, a lawyer, a bisexual and a lesbian walked into a church . . .

There were others who could be invited, of course—Lucy, their ever faithful nanny; Cragen and Munch, if the retirees weren't on separate cruises somewhere; Amaro, perhaps, with a few awkward phone calls; Alex, if they wanted to tempt fate; even Elliot Stabler, should Olivia feel particularly daring—but the idea of a large, expensive wedding didn't appeal to either bride. It should be simple, intimate, and low-key, they had agreed. That didn't mean the wedding rings had to follow the same guidelines.

The only potential problem Olivia could foresee was Amanda asking how she'd paid for the jewelry. If the detective found out that one of the rings was purchased almost in full with the earrings Alex had sent, the new bands would be even more tainted than the old. Precisely why Olivia didn't plan to tell her. She wouldn't lie, but neither would she offer the information unless pressed.

She hadn't told Alex, quickly nixing the idea to call her as soon as it occurred. The earrings were likely past their return date as well, and besides that, asking for a receipt would just be tacky and hurtful. They hadn't met for lunch on New Year's Eve. One uncomfortable FaceTime call, during which they mostly stared at their screens in excruciating silence, and a handful of falsely cheerful texts were the extent of their communication since that night beside the Christmas tree. Someday they might be able to rekindle their friendship—if Amanda could accept that, and if Alex could accept Amanda—but now wasn't the time.

So, Olivia had taken the earrings to one of the more reputable private jewelers she knew from her days of pounding the pavement as a beat cop. The owner was ancient now, but he remembered her well ("Officer Benson, look at you all grown up," had been his sweet, if somewhat outdated, greeting) and he still knew beautiful gems when he saw them. Olivia had almost gasped aloud when he offered her two thousand dollars for the earrings. Alex always did have expensive taste.

And now she had the rings. She just needed the girl.

The girl was seated across from her that night, slurping spaghetti noodles between pursed lips like she was drinking through a straw, and occasionally nudging Olivia's foot with hers under the table. They hadn't gone out for a nice dinner since before the shooting, and Olivia felt a bit out of place in the classy restaurant, after almost two months of eating at home in her sweats or scarfing something down at her desk. Watching Amanda eat her spaghetti as if she were reenacting a solo version of the scene from _Lady and the Tramp_ helped.

It was such an incongruous image—the pretty blonde in a champagne-colored silk dress, her hair in one of its side swept updos with a froth of pale curls, all the while pounding pasta like she was in an Italian eating contest. Olivia didn't mind. After weeks of disinterest in food, Amanda's voracious appetite was a welcome sight, along with that gorgeous, sensuous dress (it flowed down her body like honey), the first she had worn since her injury.

She had complained about her flabby, scarred belly when she shimmied into the bodice, but Olivia had talked her into keeping the dress on, slipping both arms around her from behind, their gaze meeting in the mirror. There was a moment's hesitation as they both recalled the last time they stood in front of the bedroom mirror like that, then Olivia said, "You look beautiful. Please wear it," and that was that.

They had turned more than a few heads entering the restaurant, Amanda light and ethereal in the dress and wrap—despite her complaints that she was "pudgy"—Olivia a dramatic contrast in jewel tones: high-waisted burgundy trousers, royal blue blouse with a V-neck that opened nearly to her navel, and a herringbone trench coat that fit like an extra long blazer. "That my reward for wearing this?" Amanda had asked, when they were seated and Olivia unbuttoned the coat to reveal the daring swath of skin extending well beyond her cleavage.

"I can close it, if you prefer," Olivia had teased, drawing shut the lapels of the trench.

"Don't you dare."

Half an hour later, Amanda had destroyed the breadbasket and was already nearing the dregs of her spaghetti with meatballs. Concerned the plan was about to go awry, Olivia asked, "You want some more breadsticks? Let's have some more breadsticks," and without waiting for a reply, signaled the server she'd made the arrangements with earlier. If this didn't work, they would probably be the first couple in history whose surprise proposal was ruined by the ability of one of the brides to inhale food like a Shop-Vac.

They were probably also one of the few couples in history to propose to each other three times, but Olivia had never really gone the traditional route in life, so why start now? Her fiancée deserved a romantic gesture once in a while—even if she pretended not to like them—and Olivia didn't want the memory of their last re-proposal to be shrouded in sadness and guilt. She wanted this memory: Amanda with marinara sauce on her chin, chiseling a bite from a giant meatball and grinning from across the candlelit table as she chewed. (Her eyes were on the swell of breast just visible at either side of Olivia's gapped blouse.)

"Enjoying the view, are we?" Olivia swirled a fettuccine noodle around the tines of her fork, making no attempt to impede Amanda's sightline. In fact, she ensured that her arm was well out of the way as she spooled up the noodle and brought it to her lips.

"Mm-hmm." Amanda nodded unabashedly, the toe of one champagne-colored pump sneaking up the cuff of Olivia's pants.

The shoe had a velvety texture that made it feel like a small creature was nuzzling against Olivia's bare ankle. She felt that nuzzle in every square inch of her body. She chased the fettuccine with a long pull from her water glass, and by the time she finished, the breadsticks had arrived. "Thank you," she said, with a deliberate glance to the server, who gave her a double thumbs-up behind Amanda's back.

"Ugh." Amanda rested a hand on her stomach, gazing dubiously at the basket Olivia nudged towards her after selecting the topmost strip. "I dunno if I can fit another one in me. I'm fixin' to pop out of this dress as is."

"Well, as much as I'd like to see that, I don't think one more will hurt." Olivia bit off a chunk of bread and found she didn't have to pretend it was delicious—fresh out of the oven and doused in garlic butter, the bread practically melted in her mouth. "Mmm my God, that's good. Nice and hot, just the way you like them . . . "

Okay, maybe she was overselling it a tad, and Amanda had started to look suspicious—she was usually the one who encouraged Olivia to eat past full, not vice versa—but she couldn't wait to see the reaction when the blonde uncovered her surprise. Giving presents to Amanda was almost as enjoyable as giving them to the kids. The excitement levels of the recipients were more or less equivalent.

"All right, you talked me into it," Amanda said, and peeled the middle breadstick from the trio slanted together against the side of the basket like a tiny raft run aground on some rocks. Or _a_ rock. "But if I bust a seam or a gut, you're gonna have to—"

Beneath the empty middle slot, the corner of the ring box, itself a diamond shape turned on its side like that, jutted out noticeably. And if that hadn't caught Amanda's attention, the shiny little bow—no bigger than a bumblebee—was bound to, especially when it slid off the box top, loosened by the heat and oily garlic, and tumbled onto the cloth napkin below. Maybe breadsticks weren't the best choice of food for ring concealment after all. (But Olivia couldn't very well hide it in the spaghetti, now could she?)

"What the hell?" Amanda asked, puzzling over the bow for a moment. She poked it with a cautious finger, as if might be alive, then spotted the box beside it and looked to Olivia for confirmation.

Olivia grinned, the only consent needed. Snatching up the box, Amanda upended it on the tablecloth, hastily polished her fingers with the napkin Olivia wagged at her, and separated the white gift box from its lid like she was Indiana Jones liberating an ancient artifact from a weight-sensitivity booby trap. The candle flames glinted in her eyes as she plucked up the velveteen box she'd revealed, turned it over, and—with one last glance at Olivia—snapped open the hinged lid.

"Still wanna marry me, little pretty?" Olivia asked, head tilted fondly as she admired every lovely nuance of Amanda's expression, from the dazzled widening of her eyes (they shimmered on their own now) to the slow-spreading smile that brightened into a full beam. Amanda Jo Rollins was literally glowing. "I promise I'll spend the rest of my life making you as happy as you've made me. And loving you no matter what life throws at us. I'll be a good mommy to Jesse and make sure she knows how loved she is every single day. And I'll do everything in my power to keep both of you safe, always."

Somewhere around the mention of her daughter's name, Amanda had begun to cry, her tears silvery in the candlelight. She laughed once, lightly, as if helplessly bemused by her own emotions, then gave an adamant nod until she regained her voice. "Yes, I'll marry you, darlin'," she said, tugging the original engagement band from her finger and extending her hand for Olivia to put the new ring on. "I want to just as much now as the first two times I asked. More, probably, 'cause now I know how much I've got to lose. I won't make that mistake ever again."

There was a smattering of applause from the tables on either side of them as Olivia slid the ring onto Amanda's finger. She hadn't realized they had attracted an audience, and her cheeks flooded with warmth, though the tables were spread out enough, the background chatter at a moderate volume, it was unlikely the intimate exchange had been overheard.

She kept hold of Amanda's fingers for a moment, gently buffing the knuckles with her thumb and drinking in the sight of the lovely, sparkling hand and the lovely, sparkling blonde to whom it belonged (to whom she belonged). "Love you," she mouthed, and flushed again—this time with pleasure—when Amanda mouthed it back.

"Look in the zipper pocket of your purse," Olivia instructed, once the onlookers returned to their meals, silverware clinking on plates and bowls, conversation resuming at a low, steady hum.

Just as Olivia expected, the pale pink clutch Amanda had set out on the bedspread while choosing her ensemble for the evening had served as little more than a fancy cell phone holder thus far. It had been simple enough to sneak the ring in: wait till Amanda's pinning up hair in bathroom, remove ring from box, slip ring into tiny inner pocket of purse—zip, click, voila!

The real trick was keeping an eye on the clutch all night to be sure Amanda didn't forget it somewhere between the apartment and the restaurant. She had it beside her on the table now, and she dug in with the same eagerness she'd shown unboxing the previous ring. When she pulled out its mate, her mouth worked wordlessly for a few seconds. Then, astonished: "How did you even pull this off?"

"Well, this one—earlier, when I said I was going to the restroom? Yeah, no, I was giving the ring to our waiter. I set the whole thing up when I made the reservations." Olivia grinned proudly, delighted by her own craftiness. She might be a terrible liar, but she was cunning as hell when it came to surprises. "And that one I just snuck into your purse while you were getting ready."

"No, I mean . . . they're so expensive. How'd you manage to get one, let alone two?" Amanda pinched the ring by the band, switching it back and forth, capturing the gleam from the candle inside the bejeweled rose, setting the petals aflame.

Stealing fire from the gods, Olivia thought, distantly, unhelpfully. Amanda had asked the exact question she didn't want to answer, and she wouldn't start out their life together with a lie. She could, however, be vague and evasive. "I had some extra cash. Some savings. Don't worry, we can afford it. Anyway, it's your money too, now. We just have to get back to the bank and make it official."

Amanda looked searchingly at her, halting the metronome-like to and fro of the ring, extinguishing the flame. "You sure you still wanna do that? I'd understand if you didn't."

"Amanda, I'm planning on spending the rest of my life with you. Finances are just one more thing we'll figure out. Together." Olivia reached across the table, fingers poised for her fiancée to slip on the ring. "You gonna put that sucker on me, or what?"

"Yes, ma'am." Amanda slid the new ring into place, on top of the old one, which Olivia hadn't let her remove. "Guess we'll have to find someplace to sell the other two, huh?"

"You kidding me? I waited this long to get hitched, I'm keeping both."

"Oh, Lord. Woman, you're gonna put me in the poorhouse for sure."

**. . .**

_February 1, 2021_

_Operation Third Time's a Charm was a success. She said yes! And so far she's accepting the explanation for how I bought the rings. She'll probably ask about the earrings eventually, when she never sees me wearing them, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it._

_For now, things are good—really good—again, and I won't let Alex or anyone else, including myself and my all-fired need for honesty, ruin that. Sometimes the truth is better left unsaid, if it will only hurt someone. Poor Alex, though. I feel bad about the way we left things. Or the way I asked her to leave them when I sent her away. I hope she can find someone . . . I hope she didn't wait this long because of me . . ._

_It reminds me of Becky. I said as much to Lindstrom, then of course I had to explain the whole ugly story to him, and I wished I'd kept my mouth shut. And now I've gone and opened it again, haven't I?_

_Becky is Rebecca Hendrix, my old friend from the academy. There were only three of us—female recruits, that is—back then: Rebecca, Rachel Wilson (RIP), and myself. We were pretty tight for a while, until Rachel got sick of the guys calling us TLC, like the girl group. She thought it made us look weak, only hanging out with each other, so she ditched us. I didn't hold it against her. But after she left, Becky and I got . . . closer._

_Let me just start by saying that I'd hardly had any female friends up to that point, so I didn't realize how intense those relationships could be. So maybe I did mistake it for something else. But I'm getting ahead of (or behind?) myself. I forgot to mention that Becky, once Officer Hendrix, later left the NYPD to become a psychiatrist. Hilarious, right? I laughed when I told that to Lindstrom, but he didn't see the irony. Probably because he's a psychiatrist. Anyway. I thought it was funny._

_Becky and I started studying alone with each other a lot. Training together, running together, sparring together. A lot of touching involved, a lot of late nights falling asleep next to each other. And we started to talk. Really talk. It was the first time I had ever opened up to anyone like that. I felt like I could tell her anything—and I did. I told her about my alcoholic mother and all the abuse; I told her about my rapist father and how I still hoped he might show up one day and love me, tell me I wasn't a mistake; I told her about the men who had hurt me, or tried to, at least up to that point in my short, so very naive life._

_She truly seemed to care. She held me when I cried, called me "sweet one," said I was beautiful and good and worthy of love. She even kissed me once, not directly on the lips but close enough that I thought it meant more than it did. I fell in love with her. I fell in love a lot in those days, usually with anyone who paid special attention to me or gave the impression of love (See: Stabler, Elliot). It was different with Becky, though. I think she did share my feelings, but she was too young, scared, ambitious. Or maybe I'm projecting._

_We went out for drinks after one of our last exams, and I overdid it a little. We both did. But I was the one with the alky mother who should have known better. Somehow we ended up back at the apartment she shared with Rachel and a couple of the other recruits. There were beers and wine coolers in the fridge, so we kept drinking. And that's where it all gets fuzzy—until the following morning when we woke up in bed together, naked._

_I have no memory of what we did that night, if anything. I'll admit, it looked bad with our clothes scattered all over the place and both of us under the same sheet. Becky said she didn't remember anything, either. I've always wondered if that was true. She wasn't a liar, though. No, she had the exact opposite problem._

_It was sweet at first. Innocent, believe it or not. We just held each other. It was the first time anyone had ever done that for me—just held me, without wanting more. My mother wanted the parts of me she'd lost, the parts my father stole from her when she was only twenty-three years old: her youth, her hope, her freedom. Daniel wanted my body, which I had just grown into that summer before we met; which I had only just begun to feel was my own. And I gave it to him._

_But Becky asked for nothing. I can still see her shy smile as she stroked my hair, as I leaned in to kiss her, as the bedroom door burst open and Rachel rushed in, asking for tampons or something . . . She could have gotten us kicked out of the academy, finding us together like that. Thankfully, she wasn't interested in being top of the class by getting the competition expelled. As far as I know, she never told anyone what she'd seen. She apologized and left before Becky or I could even say anything._

_That's when Becky panicked. She begged me to get dressed and leave. No one had ever thrown me out of bed before, which hurt. But nothing hurt as badly as the way she treated me after that. She completely froze me out whenever I tried speaking to her on campus. When I finally got her alone and pleaded with her to talk to me, she accused me of harassing her, said that I was too aggressive and that I'd probably forced my way into her bed. She said I was needy and controlling. "I think you have a problem, Olivia. And if you don't take care of it now, you're going to end up an abusive alcoholic like your mother. Or something even worse, like your father."_

_She used every single thing I'd confided to her against me, to push me as far away as she could. I felt like I was going to die. I think I wanted to, at first. But then I got angry, and I let that anger push me through those final days of the academy. I was still riding on the fumes while I worked the five-five. I didn't exactly keep tabs on Becky, but cops talk. When she quit the NYPD to pursue her medical degree two years later, it was big news, at least with the rest of us rookies._

_A few years after that, I got an unmarked package outside my door, with a copy of Rebecca's (she was back to her full name by then) dissertation inside. It was about me. She never mentioned me by name, but the title was "The Long-term Psychological Effects of Childhood Abuse on Law Enforcement Officers" and Subject #3, also known as Violet, had the exact same history as I, right down to the English professor mother and the absentee rapist father._

_She had to have been writing down my stories as I fed them to her. The details were too specific, too painfully realistic, and the quotations even sounded like me:_

" _I'd never hurt her before, no matter how much she was hurting me by then, and I was terrified. Not just because I was capable of that same violence, but also because I was afraid of what she'd do to me. I thought she would either put me in jail or the grave—so I ran."_

" _He called me once. When I was fourteen. We talked for a couple of minutes before my mother picked up the other line and he hung up. Never called back. Sometimes I wonder why he waited till then—that particular age—to contact me. Maybe he was just curious. God, I hope that's all it was."_

_I think she quoted me verbatim. There's no way she could have remembered everything I said after all that time, without having it recorded somewhere. That's all I had been to her: a patient. An experiment. I felt so used (so STUPID) reading my personal information like that—things I had never shared with anyone else, things I had cried about when I told her. She'd accused me of being too forceful, but she was the one committing the violation._

_When she resurfaced years later, during that handful of cases she consulted on with me and Elliot, I could barely stand to look at her. She pretended like none of it had ever happened, and just cozied up to Elliot, siding with him and once again acting like I pushed too hard._

_I'm not going to blame my extremely late coming out on her. I knew the attraction to women was there, and it's my fault for not acting on it sooner. But I think a big part of my inability to trust people, especially women, with those intimate pieces of myself was born from that experience. From my mother too, of course. But Bec— Rebecca took something from me that I didn't get back until Amanda. I'm not sure I can forgive her for that. I'll probably never see her again anyway._

_I'm afraid that I'm Alex's Rebecca. True, I haven't betrayed Alex like that; I didn't lead her on just to get what I wanted, then accuse her of coming on too strong. But if I'm the reason she can't move on, find happiness? If I'm the woman who put her off dating other women? I feel like I should call her and encourage her to meet someone else. I also feel like it's none of my business and I shouldn't chance making more trouble for Amanda and myself._

_I don't know. Amanda's in bed with me now. I just want to hold her, and sleep._

**. . .**


	37. Chapter 36: Seventh Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No comments for the last chapter, so I'm just going to paraphrase my author's note from ff.net: Okay, this chapter. What can I say, I thought it was time for some smut. I was also feeling silly and creative and drew some digital art of Amanda's card for Liv, to enhance the reading experience, as well, haha. We're coming up fast on the end now. I'm really going to miss these weekly updates, sigh. And on that note...

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[ ](https://imgur.com/xQ4QEIP)

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## CHAPTER 36: Seventh Heaven

**. . .**

_Happy Bzzzzirthday, baby!_ the card header read, above the doodle of the little Chibi girl riding an unusually shaped rocket accented by quotation marks that suggested vibration. Amanda had given the girl brown hair and brown eyes to match Olivia's, but her drawing skills were rusty from years of disuse and the cartoon simply looked like a cartoon.

The "rocket," however, actually bore a strong resemblance to the sex toy it depicted. And the stimulator itself, though rather pretty as sex toys went—dusty rose-colored grip, not particularly phallic—reminded Amanda of Birdo, the creature who shot eggs from her trumpetlike beak, from the _Super Mario Bros. 2_ video game.

The Satisfyer Pro 2 didn't fire projectiles, but according to Daphne, its white silicone snout, designed to fit over the clitoris and simulate oral sex via pulsation and suction, shot out orgasms faster than even Amanda's quick draw could deliver. Amanda hadn't tested it yet herself, wanting to give Olivia first dibs. It was her birthday present, after all.

Shopping had been stressful so soon after Christmas and that horrible night before New Year's Eve. Amanda was torn between the desire to lavish Olivia with gifts, as the captain tended to do for her, and the fear of overspending, of having another relapse. In the end, she'd shopped from home to avoid temptation, only searching online for the items she was certain she would purchase: the Satisfyer, some book by some feminist Olivia couldn't stop raving about, a vinyl LP of _Dusty in Memphis_ (if she couldn't sway her fiancée with the quintessential country icons, she would ease the little fussbudget into it with some stealth country, in the form of Ms. Springfield, Linda Ronstadt, and Stevie Nicks), a pretty chocolate-brown cardigan to replace the one that had recently started to unravel, and a paperweight in the shape of a peach (the crystal egg at work had fallen off the captain's desk and cracked).

Amanda had a feeling the toy was going to be the most popular of her selections. She'd held it back to be opened in private that evening—explaining what air-pulse stimulators were to the kids didn't sound like a pleasant experience for anyone—and so far, Olivia appeared adequately intrigued. She was reading the back of the box with interest ( _11 settings!_ it boasted), a faint smile still lingering on her lips from that silly doodle Amanda had whipped out in a moment of adolescent inspiration.

"Feel like tryin' it out?" Amanda asked, gazing up innocently from the foot rub she was giving Olivia, whose long legs stretched infinitely across the bedspread in their comfy joggers, bare feet in Amanda's lap. "If you're up for it. Has been a long day . . . "

She wasn't fooling anyone, least of all her bride-to-be. Olivia glanced over the top of her thick-rimmed glasses, smile gone lopsided, hitching up in a sly smirk. With the edge of her fingernail, she peeled back the circular sticker that sealed the box lid, which Amanda had already loosened when she opened it to charge the toy. Nothing wrong with preparing ahead, even Olivia would have to admit that. She did chuckle to find the inner packaging already removed, the toy peeking up at her like the sad solo puppy that remained after its littermates were adopted. Take me home. Play with me. Pretty, pretty please.

"Looks to me as though you've already taken her for a little test run," Olivia commented, removing Birdo from the box and tossing the latter aside. She hefted the toy in her palm, as if checking the weight of a weapon she was selecting for battle. The thing was about the size of a remote control and only slightly heavier, probably to support all its inner orgasm producing mechanisms. The clitoris was far more complicated and involved than any flat screen.

"Nope. Just charged the batteries ahead to save you the hassle. Like we did with the kids' toys on Christmas." Amanda grinned, working her thumbs into the ball of Olivia's foot. She never used to enjoy massaging someone else's feet—hell, she didn't even like having her own feet messed with—but there was literally not a single part of Olivia she found unpleasant to touch. She would lean down and kiss all ten of those pretty toes if the captain requested it. "I wanted you to do the honors."

"So you can just sit down there and watch while I do all the work?" Olivia asked, and though her eyebrows were obscured by the glasses, one of them was most definitely quirked. Amanda detected it in her voice. "That's some reverse psychology pillow princess bullshit, if I ever heard it. Get that cute little ass up here and help me figure it out. You know I'm hopeless with electronics."

That part was true; Olivia seemed to have given up on technology somewhere around 2015 or '16. More out of impatience than an inability to use it. And now that she had another set of hands to figure them out for her, she tended to defer all new electronics to Amanda. She was playing this to the hilt, though—you only had to press the plus or minus button to adjust the intensity of the gadget. But she was also being extra feisty, which meant she was in the mood for a different type of playing altogether.

Excellent.

"Yeah, you kinda are," Amanda agreed, placing Olivia's feet on the bedspread, one at a time, on either side of her lap. She crossed her wrists at her waist, grabbing the hem of the Siena College sweatshirt she'd stolen from Olivia, and peeling it up and off in one smooth motion.

Underneath was the pink lace bra—if you could call a sheer, cropped peasant top with no means of support a bra—she had worn in anticipation of this evening. The matching thong, little more than a strip of gossamer material suspended by velvet ribbons tied into bows at each hip, was in place beneath her frumpy gray sweats, which she shucked off now, taking her thick wool socks with them. "But if you think I planned to just lie down on the job, you don't know me very well, Cap'n."

Olivia had observed the decidedly unglamorous striptease with equal parts amusement (especially when Amanda skimmed a finger into the crotch of the panties, adjusting it over the glimpse of pink labium that pouted from one side) and desire. The desire won out as Amanda presented herself on parted knees, head tipped coquettishly to let its blonde strands spill against one alert and barely concealed breast.

"Jesus," Olivia breathed, eyes roving every inch of the body in front of her. Amanda was not happy with the present state of her abs, or the constellation of scars she had accumulated—between the star-shaped bullet and screwdriver wounds and the comet tail of her C-section scar, her belly was starting to look like the goddamned Milky Way—but she had been pleased to find that the cute lingerie set still fit like a glove. A very skimpy, see-through glove.

And Olivia looked quite pleased as well. Her cheeks were almost as pink as the lingerie itself, and she wetted her lips a few times, tongue gliding between them in a way that was overtly provocative, whether she meant it to be or not. She crooked her index finger at Amanda, summoning her forward on hands and knees, and settled back on the pillows propped against the headboard.

Oh yeah, she had definitely meant it.

When Amanda crawled over top of her, Olivia wrapped both arms around her neck and pulled her in for a deep, sensual kiss. As it heated up, each stroke of Olivia's tongue awakened every last nerve-ending in Amanda's body, until her skin was practically ahum with it; she actually did hum, once and warmly, as the captain's hands drifted down to her ass for a firm squeeze at the cheeks accentuated by the slender wedge of fabric.

"Surprise," Amanda purred into Olivia's slack mouth as the kiss tapered off. She drew back a little at a time, luring Olivia forward with a series of soft, elusive kisses she had to chase after, like flitting, teasing butterflies, for capture.

"Thought I was supposed to be the one in my birthday suit," Olivia murmured, striving for Amanda's lips and tongue, all the while her hands roaming exposed skin and gauzy lace.

The captain was so tactile, Amanda had found herself selecting only the finest, most delicate materials in her wardrobe, especially for encounters such as this. A win-win, really—it attracted Olivia's hands without fail (now, for instance, they were grazing Amanda's sides, fingers trickling along her rib cage like the water in one of those rippled wall fountains, and up to her breasts after that, loving them as tenderly and passionately as the kisses above), and it felt good against Amanda's own skin as well.

"Only if you wanna be." Amanda was getting breathless already, love drunk on the make-out session, the light pinching sensation that made her nipples ache deliciously, the upraised knee nuzzling her perineum that made everything else from the waist down ache even more. But she wouldn't continue without Olivia's consent, even if it killed her. And it just might, the way her heart and libido were pounding. "Can I?"

Without hesitation, Olivia raised her arms for Amanda to lift the hem of her raglan shirt ( _Hello Ms. President_ , it read across the chest), a cute and cozy pairing with the joggers, and one that the captain filled out so well, she might have been clad in a form-fitting bodysuit rather than loungewear. "Yes, please," she added, before Amanda could ask to hear the confirmation out loud. "I, Olivia Benson, being of sound mind and body, hereby bequeath said body unto you, Amanda Rollins, for the purpose of hot, dirty birthday sex."

Amanda had sat back on Olivia's thighs to listen to the impromptu last will and testament with a bemused smirk. She pondered it for a moment, then gave a nod of approval. "I think you mean be-queef, though."

"Ew." Olivia crinkled her nose. "I do not do that."

"Uh, I beg to differ."

"You can beg all you want, sweetheart, you're still full of shit."

The raglan shirt came off in a swoosh of stretchy cotton and tumbling brunette locks, and landed silently on the carpet below. Goodbye Ms. President, Hello Ms. Benson. The bra went next and then the joggers. Down to a simple pair of white cotton panties adorned in little blue flowers, which were somehow just as sexy as any overdone lingerie set, Olivia lounged against the pillows with the regality of Cleopatra. If Cleopatra were fiddling curiously with a brand new sex toy.

"It kinda looks like a dental tool," she observed, hitching up her hips as Amanda slid the underwear down to her thighs and whisked them free of those long, powerful legs.

You say dental tool, I say deformed video game bird, Amanda thought, grinning to herself. She ran her fingers up the length of Olivia's leg, reveling in the miles of perfectly smooth skin. Lucky duck hadn't needed to shave since menopause hit. "Well, it sure as hell ain't for your teeth, baby. You gonna hand it over now, or do I gotta wrassle you for it?"

The second it was out, bringing with it images of a struggle—pinning someone down (or against a dresser), hair being pulled, refusing to take no for an answer—Amanda regretted it. She winced at her own thoughtlessness, but Olivia had a very different reaction: a wicked twinkle in her brown eyes, she held the toy up next to her, sidelong, like she was advertising a new brand of toothpaste, and waggled it tauntingly.

"Come and get it, tough guy," she challenged, and though not intimidating in the least, it was a daunting prospect with her poured out on the bed that way, wearing nothing but a mischievous smile.

Good thing Amanda wasn't scared of a little mischief. Still as a statue one second, she lunged for the Satisfyer the next—and gave an indignant huff when Olivia easily snatched it away. She was quick, was Captain Benson. But Amanda hadn't earned her reputation as a speed demon for no reason. She caught hold of the toy on her second grab and attempted to prize it from her fiancée's hand.

That proved more difficult. Olivia's reflexes might not be quite as lightning fast as Amanda's, but her strength was at least equal to or greater than. Amanda had no choice but to fight dirty. She leaned in and planted a hungry kiss to Olivia's unsuspecting lips, and the moment they reciprocated, the captain dropping her guard, Amanda plucked the toy from her grasp.

"Ha ha!" she cried a tad maniacally, brandishing the Birdo-shaped stimulator as if she'd just snagged a coveted trophy at the end of a grueling marathon.

"I let you win," Olivia said with a casual air, shrugging her pretty, bare shoulders. (Who the hell other than Olivia Margaret Benson even had pretty _shoulders_?) "Thought you could use the ego boost."

"Uh-huh. Keep tellin' yourself that, city girl. Whatever helps you sleep at night." Amanda attempted to twirl the Satisfyer through her fingers like a baton, but quickly abandoned the effort when she almost dropped it. Her cool, confident image would be much harder to sustain if she broke the damn toy before they got to use it. "Next thing, you'll be claiming the orgasms didn't make you scream, you were just practicing your opera."

"Hey, I'm not the one the neighbors are going to issue a noise complaint about. That's all you, pal." Olivia clapped Amanda lightly on the hips, her hands settling there, encouraging a subtle rocking of the pelvis, a slow grind that was excruciating not to increase in speed or pressure. The good captain fought dirty sometimes too. "I don't believe I've ever screamed once during sex. I have my dignity."

It was true—Olivia was not a screamer. A moaner and a cusser, yes, and during particularly intense moments, she had been known to cry Amanda's name (or part of it) at a loud, breathy volume. But outright screaming wasn't for either of them. Amanda preferred to think of her sex noises, in the rare instances she considered such a thing, as emphatic agreement with occasional bursts of unbridled enthusiasm (although, she managed little more than a loose-wheel squeak when Olivia went for the G-spot). It was basically how she sounded at most sporting events, just with a lot less booing.

"Well, that's about to change," Amanda said, gliding the toy's silicone nozzle down the center of Olivia's chest, tracing it around the circumference of one breast and then the other. "You can kiss your dignity goodbye, Cap'n. I'm gonna make you come so hard and so fast, you'll lose all self-control. You might even black out, FYI."

Maybe she was exaggerating just a smidge, but Daphne had been pretty convincing. She'd guaranteed that the toy would render any user orgasmic in under three minutes: "Unless they're dead or made of stone, and even then it might restore some semblance of life." That piqued Amanda's interest, since there were still moments when she had difficulty bringing Olivia to climax. Rarely now, but when it did happen, they both ended up frustrated and feeling like they had let each other down.

What finally sealed the deal, though, was Daphne's declaration that she was swearing off women for good. "Who needs the hassle when there's this thing and the mental image of Charlize Theron?" The clerk would be back on the prowl within a week or two, no doubt, but whatever inspired her to make that claim had to be impressive. Daphne loved women the way Amanda loved leftover pizza for breakfast.

"You sound pretty sure of—" Olivia's wry smile faltered only for a second when the silicone dragged across her erect nipples, which sprung back up like buoys upon release. She cleared her throat delicately. "Yourself."

"Oh, I am very sure of myself." Amanda nodded resolutely and pressed the Satisfyer on at a low setting—just for starters. It emitted a faint hum, but was already much quieter and less jittery than any of their other battery-operated devices. She ghosted the tip over one of Olivia's nipples again, teasing her with a devilish grin that widened at the anticipatory gasp, the just perceptible twitch of abdomen its nearness elicited. Yep, under three minutes indeed.

Resting the tip in place, she took a moment to enjoy the luxurious sigh Olivia exhaled, the hint of pearly white teeth pincushioning her bottom lip, the elegant golden slope of neck exposed when she rolled her head gently onto her shoulder. She had never breastfed and her nipples were still as sensitive and perfectly proportioned as a virginal young woman's; Amanda loved that.

In some ways her fiancée's body—in spite of the significant scarring and twelve-year age difference—seemed more dewy and untouched than her own, never having gone through the rigors of childbirth. It awakened a fiercely protective impulse in Amanda, as if she were personally in charge of guarding Olivia's virtue. It also filled her with an inexplicable desire to put Olivia in her mouth, to taste and suck like she was working her way through a heart-shaped Valentine's sampler. Creamy milk chocolate, smooth rich toffee, gooey caramel . . .

It was probably some kind of Freudian oral fixation that she would eventually have to hash out in therapy, but for now she wasn't going to overthink it. She was going to do what she did best, and act. Ducking forward, she brought the other nipple into her mouth, plying with her lips and tongue. "Mmm," she hummed in unison with Olivia, whose hands were in her hair, at her shoulders, traversing her back. Her captain had a way of being everywhere at once.

Omnipresent Olivia, she thought, smiling around the tender bit of flesh between her lips. When it was the same rosy brown as Olivia's birthmarks, Amanda dragged it from her teeth, kissed and warmed it with her breath, nuzzled the breast it topped like the cherry on a voluptuous sundae. Turning her cheek to the soft, inviting mound, she gazed up to find heavy-lidded brown eyes on her. "Sorry, what was I saying? Got hungry."

"Mm, something about making me come until I black out or my head explodes, I don't know." Olivia compressed her lips, rubbing them together as if she were applying lipstick. Eyes fluttering closed, she clasped Amanda by the wrist of the same hand that held the Satisfyer to her breast. Her deep, sensual sighs warmed Amanda to the core. "I think you were exaggerating just a . . . "

The captain ended the sentence there, basking in the sensations the toy provided on one side, Amanda's fingers taking up the task on the other. She was already so blissed out, it probably wouldn't even take a full minute to push her over the edge. Still, Amanda decided to give herself a little leeway for her next proposition: "I bet you I can—"

 _Sonuvabitch_.

She bit down viciously on her bottom lip, cursing herself again for the poor word choice: _I bet you_. It was only a figure of speech, and one she had always used without a second thought, but her timing could not have been worse. They didn't need the reminder that she was a screwup addict ("A recovered addict who made a mistake," Dr. Hanover would undoubtedly have corrected her) looming over them right now.

But just when Amanda was sure she'd ruined the moment, Olivia's eyes opened and focused on her. "Go on," the captain prompted, easing back Amanda's wrist and navigating the toy lower, the meaning clear as her legs gently parted. "That sounded like a challenge. You know how much I love those."

If luck was in fact a lady, her name must be Olivia Benson. Offering up a small, grateful smile, Amanda drew a calming breath and resumed her previous swagger. "How 'bout this? You hold out for longer than two minutes, I promise I'll be the one who wears the dress when we get married."

She probably should have upped it to three, but to be honest, she wasn't terribly opposed to wearing a dress for the wedding—especially after seeing some of the options Olivia had linked her to via text while they were bored at their desks during a rare quiet moment at SVU. Olivia knew her style well and Amanda had actually caught herself fawning over a few selections. Of course, she would kill for the chance to see her captain in traditional bridal attire as well, but if Olivia insisted on a white fitted pantsuit with a low-cut lace bustier, who was Amanda to complain?

"Ooh, I like that. You've got yourself a deal, sweetheart." Olivia sounded for all the world like a used car salesman who had just pawned off a clunker. Any minute now she was going to start pressing the flesh and handing out her business card. "With the veil and everything?"

Scrunching up one eye, Amanda made a show of thinking it over. In the meantime, she teased idly at Olivia's dark swatch of pubic hair with the pulsing head of the toy. "I dunno," she drawled, wincing as if the decision were a dicey one. "That might require some extra conditions to be met."

"Such as?"

"Such as, I'll only wear the veil if—" Amanda stroked the Satisfyer between Olivia's legs, letting the thrumming silicone coast over her clit. She got just the reaction she was hoping for: a soft gasp, barely audible but enough to prove her point. " . . . If you can keep from making noises any louder than the one you just made. And if you're screamin' my name by the end? You have to wear a dress, too."

Olivia contemplated her options, glancing down at the toy as though she were weighing her endurance against that of an opponent. She must have had a lot of faith in her own willpower, because she tilted her pelvis invitingly and, with a sultry look, pronounced with every part of her lips, teeth, and tongue, "Done."

She could probably just enunciate every word like that, lips doing the sexy little tug to the side thing that was so uniquely her, and achieve pretty much the same effect as the Satisfyer on Amanda. But that would have to wait until their competition was over. At the moment, Amanda had wedding arrangements to attend to.

"You're gonna look real pretty in your dress, darlin'," she husked, thumbing the plus button on the toy to increase the intensity by two settings. With the thumb and index finger of one hand, she gently spread apart Olivia's labia and placed the soft nozzle over her clit like she was extinguishing a candle flame with a douter.

And igniting another fire altogether.

Olivia Benson was not a screamer, no. But after her first minute under the sex toy, she was panting and fisting the pillow behind her head. She exhaled a shaky breath through the heart-shaped opening formed by her rounded lips. The deep breathing exercises weren't going to help with this, nor would pressing her lips together until a pallid outline formed around the taut edges. An attempt to stifle a moan produced a whimper instead, but she cut it short immediately, squeezing her eyes shut even tighter, a deep furrow between her eyebrows.

"Too much, baby?" Amanda slowed the wrist she was using to rotate the nozzle, adding to the stimulation, and lightly cupped the breast she'd been massaging with her free hand.

It was harder to read Olivia's expression when those big brown eyes were closed, but a fierce little shake of her head assuaged most of Amanda's concern. "Want me to keep going?" she asked, and the shake turned into a fierce little nod.

"Mm-hmm," Olivia whined, violating the volume rule they had established with a needy sound—part moan, part pained cry—that escaped the back of her throat like a bird from a cage the second her lips parted. (Amanda would probably wear the veil anyway.)

They were thirty seconds from cutoff time, and Olivia was clearly struggling to contain the mounting pressure within, her hips rolling towards each pulse from the Satisfyer, thighs clenched so tight around Amanda's hand they trembled. "'Manda fu-fuck," she whispered, then grabbed blindly for the corner of a pillow, stuffed it into her mouth, and bit.

"S'okay, baby." Amanda murmured soft, unintelligible comfort, almost a melody, as she stroked her way down Olivia's writhing abdomen. She nestled the heel of her palm in the short, wiry curls below, rubbing Olivia's pubic mound firmly, diligently. That usually did the trick. "I'll wear the dress no matter what. You can—"

At two minutes on the nose, Olivia gave in—the first in a series of intense orgasms that didn't lead to any screaming but sure as hell weren't quiet or the least bit dignified. She forgot herself entirely and with absolute abandon. Amanda was there to guide her through it every step of the way.

**. . .**

_2/7/21_

_Five. Five! I made her come five times in a row, y'all. Well, okay, the Satisfyer thing did, but holy shit, that's got to be some kind of record._ _I've_ _never even had that many orgasms in a row before, and I'm usually the one who has multiples. I thought she might actually black out like I teased her about. (She didn't, but she did finally beg me to turn it off.)_

_Poor thing was so wiped out afterwards, she just lay there limp as a wet noodle, staring at the ceiling and panting like Frannie after a run. I'll admit I wanted to try the thing out for myself—especially after seeing Liv enter another plane of existence like that—but when she reached for it, still a little shaky from The Most Orgasms Ever, I asked if I could just hold her for a while. She was all about that. Woman loves to cuddle._

_Not sure what possessed me to say it, other than being drunk on the scent and taste of her (Why does she even smell good after sex? Who_ _does t_ _hat?), and getting used to spilling my guts in therapy (Well . . . trying to get used to it, anyway), but she was lying there with her hand on my belly while I played with her hair, and the question kinda just popped out: "When should we have a baby?"_

_She was quiet for a really, really long time. I would've thought she was asleep, if I hadn't looked down and seen her eyelashes flutter. Her fingers found the scar from Jesse's C-section, just above the ribbon of those ridiculous (but hot) tissue paper panties, and traced it end to end. I half expected her to lie and say she didn't want to, even though I know for a fact she does. I'd have to be blind not to see it. But she said, "Let's wait at least until we're married, and then we can talk about that some more. Yeah?"_

" _Sounds like a plan," I said, and kissed the scar on her forehead. I still don't know how she got it. "You're so smart, always thinkin' ahead."_

_I almost made a joke about how at least one of our kids wouldn't be born out of wedlock, but considering how Liv came into this world, and who Noah and Tilly's birth parents were, I don't think it would've been very funny. Good one, Amanda. Why not just call her and all the kids bastards while you're at it?_

_Anyway. The kids and I made her breakfast in bed this morning. I was in charge of the French toast; Noah did an okay job with the scrambled eggs, though they were a little rubbery (Liv fed half of them to the dogs when no one was looking, ha!). I let the girls "decorate" the toast with powdered sugar and fresh fruit, but I think they got more of it in their hair than on the plate. At least they smelled good when we served her the creepy clownface monstrosity they dreamed up._

_She's so cute when we do stuff like that for her. Always so surprised and a bit flustered, like she can't believe we put that much time and effort into something for her. I had to laugh a little (just in an "aww babe don't cry" kind of way) when she teared up over the French toast. I know it's about way more than toast—thanks to that bitch of a mother she had, she can't wrap her brain around the idea that anyone would love her enough to do special things for her._

_Well, she better get used to it. I'm gonna spend the rest of my life making damn sure she knows how much she means to me._

_P.S. When she thought the kids weren't listening, she told me to get ready for some afternoon delight with the new toy. Jesse overheard of course and kept asking "what toy" and could she "play with it" too? "We're a'sposed to share our toys, ain't we, Mama?" That kid. I thought Liv was going to shoot orange juice straight out of her nose. Luckily she didn't and we got the kids settled in front of the very loud TV for a good solid hour of Sunday cartoons. Meanwhile, their sweet, strait-laced (ha again!) mommy defiled me in the bedroom. That's why this entry is so long. I'm a damn poet when I got a few good orgasms in me._

**. . .**


	38. Chapter 37: Hell or High Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a weird day for me, full of migraines and family members exposed to the 'Rona, otherwise I would've posted this sooner. Thanks for smut-tastic reviews last time. Just for that, here have some more. ;)

## CHAPTER 37: Hell or High Water

**. . .**

The ink had already set long before they got back to the SUV and cranked up the heat, but Amanda continued flapping the slip of paper in front of the vents like she was drying out a waterlogged manuscript. She brought the document close to her lips and blew a light stream of air over the black ink ("Register of Deeds won't accept any other color," the court clerk had explained, apropos of nothing), scrawled in her puffy, bubblegum script and Olivia's spiky pen strokes.

"I don't think our names are going anywhere, my love," Olivia said fondly, watching Amanda fuss from the corner of her eye as she navigated them out of the parking garage and onto Worth St.

Valentine's Day had fallen on Sunday this year, President's Day following immediately at its heels. Today was Tuesday, but the streets were Monday-busy, just as the City Clerk's office had been, after the extra long weekend. Love was in the air post-Valentine's, it seemed. But Olivia couldn't bring herself to complain; she was as guilty as the rest of the fools in love—and in line for a marriage license.

It had been an hour and thirty minute wait in the uncomfortable chairs with cracked upholstery that lined the wall outside the glass office, and another hour in similar chairs, these huddled together inside of a room no bigger than a closet, where they had recorded their life histories on paper and answered absurd questions recited by a clerk in monotone: Is either party under the influence of an illegal stimulant? Are both parties here of their own free will? Are they married to anyone else?

Even Olivia had rolled her eyes at that one, joining Amanda who had been wildly impatient with the whole process, though good-natured. Olivia recognized the antsy behavior—the pen-tapping and leg-bouncing, the wistful sighs and the reading aloud in an insectile whisper—not as boredom or disinterest in the proceedings, but as barely contained excitement. Maybe some nerves mixed in. She understood that, too. Her own belly had turned somersaults when the clerk handed them the license and said, "Congratulations. Twenty-four hours from now, you can officially become wife and wife."

They were still planning the wedding for next month, though it was tempting to just call in a favor to one of the many judges they knew personally and skip the whole to-do of a ceremony. But if they did that, Daphne Tyler would probably never forgive them. She was more excited about the upcoming nuptials than they were, her insistence that a queer wedding, especially one in which she was acting as witness and maid of honor, had to be "epic" a tad overwhelming.

The dual bachelorette party, a wholly unnecessary tradition in Olivia's opinion, had fallen into Daphne's tiny, exuberant hands as well, and there was already talk of hosting it in a strip club. Olivia wasn't strictly opposed—she had always appreciated the candidness and tenacious spirits of the strippers she'd met on the job, not to mention the mind-boggling athleticism—but she would soon be a married woman. The only hot blonde she cared to watch undress or have grinding in her lap was the one seated beside her now, beaming at the names Amanda J. Rollins-Benson and Olivia M. Rollins-Benson on the back of their marriage license.

"Can't help it," Amanda said, holding up the paper by its sides and peering over the top, just eyes, nose, and a side-sweep of blonde bangs. _Kilroy was here_. God, she was cute. "I like my new name. I still think we coulda dropped the Rollins altogether and kept it shorter . . . but hyphenated is good, too. It makes us sound trendy. And rich."

Well. They certainly weren't that. Despite the decision to make it a small, intimate ceremony at the church where Amanda had Jesse baptized—Olivia loved the stained glass windows and dark oak furnishings of the sanctuary, and the female minister was a nice touch—the wedding was proving more expensive than Olivia ever would have dreamed.

Even with modest floral arrangements, off-the-rack dresses (pants for herself and Noah the ring bearer), a musician friend of Fin's secured as pianist/deejay, and Carisi's mother (along with a gaggle of his sisters, no doubt) promising to cater her big Italian heart out, Olivia's bank account had taken a hit. They would be honeymooning on Staten Island at this rate. No wonder most people got married when they were young enough that their parents had to pay for everything.

And yet. Whenever Olivia saw that bright, beautiful smile Amanda wore with increasing frequency as the wedding date drew nearer, she felt her own anticipation growing, and an odd sense of calmness and security that was totally foreign to her. She'd expected to get cold feet, as she always did when life felt too easy, when she felt too loved; instead, she was more certain of her relationship with Amanda than she had ever been. Maybe the difference was that she knew things wouldn't always be perfect between them—but they were as close to perfection as two people had ever gotten.

"I like Rollins," she said, and pushed the flash drive she'd spent most of yesterday filling with music into the USB port with her index finger. From the display screen above the radio controls, she selected the appropriate media settings, swiped through the artists folder until she reached the D's, and chose the song she was searching for (each step taught to her by the Rollins in question). It wouldn't do as a wedding song, or even as an accompaniment for the first dance, but they might be able to sneak it in later during the reception.

" _Here you come again  
__Just when I've begun to get myself together . . . "_

"And Jesse should have at least one of her mamas' last names," Olivia added, as Dolly Parton's cricketlike vibrato filled the cabin of the vehicle, blocking out the sounds of the traffic jam they were solidly wedged into.

In the past couple of weeks, she had discovered, much to her surprise, that she didn't entirely despise country music. Amanda was really selling it lately, particularly since Olivia's birthday and that Dusty Springfield LP ("She was bisexual too, you know," the detective had stated sagely, while blasting "Son of a Preacher Man" on the turntable), in hopes of influencing the reception playlist. Little did she know, Olivia had been listening to the raspy-throated singer and her blue-eyed soul probably before Amanda was even born.

Dusty gave way to Linda Ronstadt, whose many collaborations with Emmylou Harris and Dolly Parton were the true gateway drug Amanda sought to administer. Before Olivia had known what hit her, she was listening to—and enjoying—Reba McEntire, Martina McBride, Alison Krauss, and the Chicks. Her favorite so far was Little Big Town, whose songs resonated most deeply with her. The lyrics of "Next to You" reminded her so much of herself and Amanda, she was considering putting it in the running for first dance.

 _You're my heart and my home_.

"Yeah, at least until we're all officially Rollins-Bensons," her heart, her home was saying now, still smiling at the hyphenated names on the page. There had been some discussion of adopting the kids so they would all—mothers and children—share the same last name and parenting rights among the adults, but they hadn't settled on anything yet. Mostly because Amanda would have to contact Declan Murphy to get his consent for Olivia to adopt Jesse, and neither of them were looking forward to that conversation.

They had time, Olivia thought, and couldn't resist a wry grin down at her watch. They had all the time in the world.

" _All you gotta do is smile that smile  
__And there go all my defenses . . . "_

In the middle of harmonizing with Dolly, Amanda stopped short and gazed up at Olivia in amazement. She looked as if she'd just experienced a divine revelation, and she pointed emphatically at the radio display. "You picked a country song," she said in an awed, hushed tone. And when she had skimmed through the music library contained on the flash drive: "Oh my Lord, there's a ton of country on here! I see Lady A, LBT, Loretta, Reebs, Tanya, Wy . . . Babe, look at this, you are a bona fide country fangirl."

"I wouldn't go that far." Olivia playfully batted Amanda's hand away from the touchscreen. Traffic was flowing again and she needed to concentrate on the road, not on defending her so-called disdain for a music genre. Could she help it if the female artists of country music ( _not_ country and western) were actually talented, strong women with a message to deliver?

"But . . . I might have judged it a tad harshly. I still think most of the men are overrated and their songs are vapid noise, if not downright misogynistic. Except George Strait. And the guy with the high voice from Brooks & Dunn."

Amanda grinned from ear to ear. "Ronnie. Admit it, you looove him. You wanna marry him and have his woolly, falsetto babies."

Olivia snorted and raised a gloved finger at a time from the steering wheel, numbering her objections to that gross misrepresentation of facts. "Okay, first of all, shut up. Second, physically impossible. And third . . . " She glanced over long enough to trail her fingers down Amanda's cheek, ending in a little flourish under the chin. "I don't want anybody else's babies but yours, little pretty."

Together they finished out an impromptu singalong with Dolly as the SUV cruised towards Seventh Ave, Amanda crooning in her loveliest lilting twang, while Olivia hummed and, with a little prompting, warbled offkey:

" _Here you come again  
__Lookin' better than a body has a right to_  
_And shakin' me up so that all I really know  
__Is here you come again, and here I go . . . "_

Fifteen minutes later (the length of three and half country songs, all of them chosen by Amanda and featuring some type of sexual theme), they were belting out Mary Chapin Carpenter's "Shut Up and Kiss Me" when Olivia pulled into the lot beside a building modestly sized by Manhattan standards.

"What're we doin' here?" Amanda asked, peering curiously out the windshield at the twenty or so stories above and drumming her thighs to the flirtatious beat.

Olivia gave her a moment to spot the logos of the businesses that occupied the building, clustered on a pylon sign at the edge of the parking lot. Among them was the blue winding river icon of Sterling National Bank. Obviously she'd chosen a different branch than the one where they had been robbed and Amanda nearly shot to death. She had almost scrapped the idea altogether, worried it was too soon for either of them to set foot in another bank or make significant financial decisions. But that was the fear talking, and Olivia had let it win for far too long.

"Ready to try this again?" she asked, angling a nod at the building. She hadn't silenced the engine or Mary Chapin Carpenter yet. If Amanda showed the least bit of trepidation, Olivia was prepared to beat a hasty retreat out of the lot and back to the precinct to relieve Fin and Kat for the afternoon.

But any hesitation on Amanda's part was short lived. She slid their marriage license back into the manila envelope in her lap and stowed it away in the footwell. "With you? I'm ready for anything," she said, and beckoned Olivia to follow as she hopped down from the vehicle. "Come on, Mrs. Rollins-Benson, let's go kick some joint-account ass."

" _Ooh, shut up and kiss—"_

**. . .**

_February 27, 2021_

_I woke up this morning covered in glitter. But before I get into that, I should mention the other shiny news: they've been convicted and sentenced. Alpha and her accomplices—the ones who almost took Amanda away from me._

_Her real name is Makiah Washington; she's just 24, an OTH discharge from the army. Came back to New York because of her brother, Martavius (aka "Kilo"). He would have turned 19 last month. She got 35 years for armed robbery and aggravated assault. It's not enough._

_Larry Long (aka "Victor"), whose real name Amanda keeps laughing about because "it sounds like a porn star from 1989," got 20 years for armed robbery; Mike (his real name), dead on the scene, got a life sentence I guess you could say. Whiskey the getaway driver (Gabe Torres), whom I've barely laid eyes on, received a slap on the wrist: 6 years. He'll be out in three._

_It's that same anticlimactic feeling I had when they found Orion's body. I tried to give Amanda the afternoon off when the call came in, but she wouldn't let me. Said we already burnt up enough sick leave lately, and if we do manage a honeymoon, we'll need the vacation days. Not to mention maternity leave eventually . . . Maybe . . ._

_She's right, of course. But I have to look out for her. Who would I be if I didn't do that? Certainly not Olivia Rollins-Benson. (We're sticking to our given names at work, just to cut back on confusion, but Amanda's practically announcing the new one to strangers on the street. And honestly? I'm not much better.)_

_Now, about the glitter. Last night was our bachelorettes party, and it was truly unlike anything I've ever experienced. That's what I told Daphne when she shouted, "Isn't this the best night ever?" across the table, dodging the stripper's scissor legs to see me on the other side. She looked like she was inside a zoetrope, trying to peek out the slits as they whirled by._

_But first we started out at the karaoke bar. I really can't handle the hard stuff anymore, be it booze or ballad. I wouldn't say I was drunk, but there's no way in hell I would've gotten on that stage stone-cold sober. I was in good company, though. Over the course of two hours, I witnessed my officer, Kat Tamin, falling on her can while doing a hip hop routine to the Salt-N-Pepa song "Push It"; Daphne sobbing in the middle of her rendition of "Silver Springs" (it was actually a decent impersonation of Stevie Nicks mid-meltdown); and Amanda singing every word of "Abracadabra" to me as she sexy-danced her way to the table—they even followed her with the spotlight, like she was a Vegas lounge act._

_It was ridiculous. And hot. And now I can't get that damn song out of my head: "Abra abracadabra, I wanna reach out and grab ya . . . "_

_And I did. A few times. But if she's gonna shake it in my face like that, really, who could blame me?_

_I tried my hand and my sad, sad little voice at some Aerosmith. "Crazy"—which I think is what I must have been to attempt Steven Tyler. That's what happens when I wear leather pants and drink tequila. And that is why I rarely do either. I vaguely recall Amanda shouting, "Yeah, baby! You sound so good!" at me from the audience; that's how I know she was completely trashed. I'm pretty sure Daphne filmed the whole thing on her phone, and I'll be forced to relive every horrific, screechy moment at some later date. For years to come, most likely._

_Daphne's friend Natasha, who I'm almost positive has a crush on her (and in an ironic twist, Daph seems to have no clue), was our sober friend. She got us to the strip club in one piece, and cut us off after two pitchers of beer. And that's where the glitter comes in. Booty dust, I think, is the technical term. The lap dance was not my idea. Actually, if I'm not mistaken, Kat was the one who sent them over. They said their names were Cassie and Camara (like the car, but an "A" at the end instead of an "O"), and they thought it was "super cute" that we even bothered to ask._

_I say we because they danced for—or rather, on—Amanda and me. It was probably the single most awkward moment of my life, and I'll be cleaning glitter off my skin and clothes until long after the wedding. Tamin is going to get a lot of extra paperwork on Monday. Even Daphne was surprised; after the dances ended, she leaned over to me and confided, "This is officially the gayest bachelorette party I have ever been to."_

_Me too, Daph._

_I was a little worried that Amanda might be jealous, but she handled it well. Hard to focus on much else when a complete stranger is rubbing her ass in your crotch. But we made it through, tipped Cassie and Camara generously (they told us to "please come back anytime"), and I can officially say I'm no longer a lap-dance virgin. Receiving, at least. I owe Amanda one now . . ._

_Hers came after we got home. Performed in the middle of the living room because the kids are at a weekend sleepover with Uncle Sonny. Frannie and Gigi were extremely curious as to why Mama was climbing all over Mommy like they usually do. Gigi kept nuzzling in between us, and Frannie ran off with Manda's underwear (did I mention the lap dance was also a striptease?). I didn't even have to teach her that. What a good girl._

_Both dogs hid when things really heated up between us. Apparently sex noises are just as traumatic to canine ears as fireworks. It definitely felt like some pyrotechnics were going off inside me. Or maybe that was just Amanda's tongue._

_Kaboom._

**_. . ._ **

The heels belonged to Maggie, although how a fictional femme fatale on the run from a brutish lover could afford Louboutins was beyond Olivia's wildest imagination. She had barely been able to afford them herself when she bought them on a whim for that night of roleplay a few months ago. A very expensive whim.

They were heaven on the feet. Like walking on pure sex. Amanda seemed to concur, leaning forward in anticipation, elbows resting on her thighs, which were cocked at a masculine angle. She laced her fingers loosely in front of her, eyes gleaming quicksilver-blue as they traveled up Olivia's bare legs.

The black blazer fell just past the tops of Olivia's thighs in the front, the undercurve of her ass playing peekaboo in the back. A swivel of the hips or a subtle arching of the spine was all it took to flash the dark groove, the fleshy swell beyond. There might have been some practicing in front of the mirror beforehand.

She'd tipped the black fedora over one eye, a la Judy Garland performing "Get Happy" in _Summer Stock_. But that was where the similarities to Ms. Garland's iconic musical number ended; whereas Judy had downplayed some of the eroticism in her big scene with a modestly arranged ascot and a cheerful gospel-inspired tune—it had been the fifties, after all—Olivia opted for a see-through black teddy and an AC/DC song that was anything but religious. _Trash_ , her mother had deemed it when she overheard thirteen-year-old Olivia blaring "You Shook Me All Night Long" in her bedroom. _Don't let me ever catch you listening to that disgusting swill ever again_.

Sorry, Ma.

She went to work quickly, peeling the hat back from her untethered hair and flinging it into a far corner of the bedroom. Bat outta hell, she thought without any further explanation, and started on the blazer next. Simple enough, with only the top button cinching it at her middle. The panels fell open at the perfect moment—just as she'd planned it—and she gave her thighs a brisk slap, running her hands up the insides, in time with Brian Johnson's full-throttle screech: " _Knockin' me out with those American thighs_."

If the neighbors called the cops because the lesbians in E6 were disturbing the peace, Olivia would never live down this little foray into exotic dance. But the music needed to be loud to distract from the dancing. That was also why she ditched the blazer so quickly. Amanda would be too busy ogling her body inside the revealing teddy, its only coverage a garden of dainty flowers and vines embroidered on the sheer bodice, to pay any attention to her poor rhythm. And judging by the enormous grin and enormous pupils of the blonde in the armchair, that assessment had been one hundred percent correct.

Olivia had learned a thing or two from Camara, though. For instance, a lap dance wasn't so much about the actual dancing as it was about small, sensual movements that emphasized the breasts, the hips, the ass (especially that), the pelvis. And grinding. Lots of grinding. All things Olivia was more than capable of doing—she'd known how to use her physicality alluringly since she was a teenager—and quite well.

After a few moments of seductive strutting to the hard-hitting electric guitar riffs, Olivia swung her hips close enough for Amanda to seize them and pull her forward, shins bumping into the cushy front guard of the seat. "Uh-uh, that'll cost you extra," she scolded lightly, unbuckling Amanda's arms from around her waist. She lifted her fiancée's chin with the pad of her index finger, leaning in as if intent on kissing those sweet upturned lips. Instead, she murmured in Amanda's ear. "And I don't come cheap."

"Guh," said Amanda.

Smirking, Olivia lowered a knee onto the seat cushion and brought the other up to join it, straddling the blonde's thighs without sitting on them. She spent the next several seconds of the song rocking her pelvis in Amanda's face—close to it, anyway—arms slung over the back of the chair, hair hanging down and brushing their cheeks. (" _Made a meal out of me and came back for more_ ," Brian observed.)

Amanda was dying to touch her, that much was obvious from the fists clenched beside her calves, but Olivia drew it out a little longer, tossing her wavy locks and running her fingers through them as she wiggled. Finally, when the detective looked ready to burst, she climbed down from her perch and turned in the opposite direction, a heel firmly planted in the carpet at either side of Amanda's feet. Time to shake the moneymaker.

"' _Cause the walls were shaking, the earth was quaking . . . "_

From behind, a sound like steam hissing from a teakettle alerted her that Amanda was indeed about to blow. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," whistled the blonde, converting on the spot when Olivia dipped forward and undulated her spine, hips, ass. She flipped her hair back over her shoulders—probably would have a kink in her neck tomorrow, but it was worth it—and lifted it again, letting it cascade from the bundle in her arms like a waterfall down her back.

Now, she seated herself in Amanda's lap and began the grinding. She had missed out by at least a decade or two on the dance crazes that involved rubbing one's ass against one's partner, but she had ridden a couple of the men she'd dated in this same position. She emulated the motion from those encounters, sliding her ass up and down Amanda's midsection, crotch to breasts and back again.

"Fuck, babe." Amanda splayed her hands wide to hover over Olivia's rippling torso. "I need to touch you. Please?"

" _. . . knocked me out and then you shook me all night long . . . "_

Olivia grabbed Amanda's hands and pressed them to her body, guiding them first to her breasts for a squeeze that nearly freed both nipples from the abbreviated cups of the teddy's built-in bra. Then down, down, down, to rub against her pussy, where a trio of discrete snaps in the teddy's—admittedly very wet—crotch made for easy access. Draping herself fully against Amanda's front and gazing coyly back at her, she manipulated the blonde's fingers into plucking open each snap. No coaxing required.

"Think I have a career in this, if the cop gig doesn't pan out?" she teased as she allowed Amanda to take over.

"Oh, darlin'. You'd make a killin'," Amanda rumbled into the thicket of dark hair at her neck.

Only a few more lines of the song remained by the time Amanda was inside her. You really took me, she thought, somewhere in the back of her mind, grinding again. Yeah, you shook me.

**. . .**

Olivia flipped to the empty space in her journal, below Amanda's name, written that night—two months ago, now—in a moment of desperation, of overwhelming loneliness.

She finally remembered what she had wanted to say to her fiancée when she'd jotted those letters at the top of the page. It wasn't anything new or fancy or wordy, as most of her entries tended to be, but it was the truth, pure and simple. It was the truest thing she had ever known.

Beneath Amanda's name, in a black pen like the one on their marriage license—permanent, binding—she wrote: _I love you_.

**. . .**


	39. Chapter 38: The Ballad of a Dove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's that time again... time to say we've reached the penultimate chapter. :'( I'm sorry it's late. I'm posting without proofreading since I got such a late start, so please overlook any mistakes you happen across. I'll tidy up when I get the chance to re-read later. Have a good weekend, y'all.

## CHAPTER 38: The Ballad of a Dove

**. . .**

"Okay, I don't want to alarm you, but I think Frannie may have swallowed one of the rings."

A lump formed in Amanda's esophagus, as if she had just swallowed one of the rings herself, and she whirled away from the mirror, her reflection red-faced and wild-eyed beneath the fairy crown of pale yellow roses that adorned her hair. After much debate, she had opted to wear it down, in a brooklike flow of gentle, golden waves. That felt more natural to her than any prissy updo, and though a little disappointed by the decision, Olivia had acquiesced, declaring that she too would wear her dark mane loose and wavy. "To compliment my bride."

That hadn't been Amanda's main objective, but she wasn't going to discourage it, either. As much as she adored Olivia's hair in all its varied and lovely manifestations, each one somehow prettier than the last, she liked it best when it tumbled freely around the captain's perfect, poised shoulders. That was her Liv. Her wife.

Except now one of the damn dogs had swallowed one of the damn rings, minutes before the ceremony. She'd thought it was such a cute idea, including Frannie and Gigi as part of the wedding processional, both of them wearing flowered collars to match their mamas' headdresses. Bridesmutts, she had dubbed them, getting an eye roll from Olivia, who was every bit as keen on the dogs' participation as Amanda was.

Noah had been entrusted with a dual role as ring bearer and Frannie's handler—the pit mix had a fondness for men, even very young ones, and she'd taken strongly to the boy in the past year, sometimes choosing him over Amanda. (That was fine with Amanda. Outnumbered six to one by females in his own home, her son deserved a loyal companion.) Jesse was in charge of Gigi, who obeyed commands from everyone in the household, including the smallest member, Matilda, and wouldn't dream of dragging her young attendant down the aisle.

It had seemed like the perfect plan.

Then Daphne appeared, blue eyes oversized in her finely structured face, and made that announcement. And now Amanda was having a nervous breakdown in the middle of a church nursery with a crayon-colored landscape of cartoon trees painted on the walls.

"I'm gonna kill 'er," she announced, hands miming a stranglehold on the air in front of her. The first engagement band—the one she teasingly referred to as their "practice ring," just to rile Olivia—glinted on her right ring finger. They could use that set today, and wait for Frannie to deposit the other in a day or two (then however long it took to have the thing professionally cleaned). But no, murder felt like the appropriate course of action. "Bring her here. I'll strangle her with my veil."

Yes, she had recanted her agreement with Olivia, made while the captain was under duress—so to speak—and worn the veil. She hated to admit it, but it looked gorgeous flowing out behind her, a pristine and seamless match to her dress. Why was Olivia always so damn _right_?

"Whoa." Daphne drew back a step, folding the sides of her buttery chiffon skirt in on themselves, as if she'd just encountered an ankle-deep mudhole for crossing. She had expressed some concern about resembling a "sexy Mr. Peanut" if she paired her cane with the tea-length yellow skirt and lace bodice of her maid of honor dress, but she looked more like a pretty Black-eyed Susan in the cheerful color, her dark bob swept into a curly half ponytail. "Before you go all Red Wedding up in here, I was joking. The rings are safely attached to that little pillow Fin's guarding. Nobody's getting their hands—or paws—on them until it's time."

"Daphne! You scared the shit out of me." Amanda clutched at her chest, taking deep, gulping breaths, as far as the bodice of her dress would allow. It wasn't particularly tight, but the eyelet lace trim, an intricate daisy chain that looped around the V-neck and the waist, was so delicate, she feared stretching it out with too much expansion. This was precisely why she hated to dress up. She felt stiff as a mummy, white swaddling and all.

The dress was pretty, though. One of the simpler garments from the list she and Olivia had compiled of their top three choices each. Amanda's photo array had been comprised only of dresses, despite having won the challenge she posed in bed a few weeks earlier. ("I said if you held out _longer_ than two minutes, I'd wear the dress," she'd bickered playfully, when Olivia insisted her orgasm at exactly two minutes made her the victor. "But if you want a rematch, that's fine by me. Bring it, lady.")

In the end, she had gone with this dress because of the reasonable price tag, but it had the added bonus of being her favorite. Beyond the fitted bodice, the skirt just grazed the tops of her feet, more of the eyelet lace wrapping around it in tiered segments. No unnecessary frills or frippery, no complicated eye hooks or heavy beading to worry about snagging and spilling all over the floor of the church. Just soft, airy fabric that reminded her of white doves and fluffy clouds on a sunny day. She was tempted to walk barefoot down the aisle in such a dress; she wouldn't, lest she look like a pipsqueak next to her long-legged, heel-wearing bride—but she was tempted.

"I love you, Daph," Amanda said with complete solemnity now, "but if you ever freak me out like that again, I will sell you to the nearest pet store as an Easter chick. One look at you in that dress, they'll believe me."

Daphne snickered and ambled closer, barely leaning on the white cane she'd bought specially for the occasion. It was decorated with a winding vine of tiny yellow flowers and Alice-blue ribbon. Leave it to Daphne to make a fashion statement with a wedding color scheme. "Sorry, Mandy Lou. I figured if I led with that, you'd be less likely to freak out that Frannie _did_ actually eat part of her leash. The flowers, specifically. Kinda looks like they went through a wood chipper."

The floral vines, entwined with the dog leashes to add that little bit of pretty Olivia so loved, had been another of Amanda's so-called inspired ideas. She should have known better than to trust Frannie around anything that smelled good and appeared remotely edible. "Damn mutt," she said, but shook her head and chuckled. It was either laugh or cry, and she wasn't about to ruin the makeup she'd applied with painstaking care half an hour earlier. At least not yet.

She fully expected to bawl like a baby while reciting her vows. Writing them, she could barely get through two lines at a time without fat tears rolling down her cheeks and wetting the paper below. She'd memorized every word she put down, determined not to carry a folded scrap of notebook paper down the aisle, but there was a cheat sheet tucked into the cup of her bra. Just in case.

Turning back to the mirror as Daphne sidled up next to her, Amanda gave a light, exasperated sigh but smiled at both their reflections. Little had she known that striking up a conversation with a random stranger at the dog park would someday lead to this: that same random stranger now a best friend, about to see her down the aisle to marry the woman she might never have pursued without a less than subtle nudge from an enthusiastic matchmaker.

Suddenly, she enveloped Daphne in a tight hug, threatening to lift the smaller woman off the ground. But not in this dress and not with her abdomen still a bit tender to the touch. That lap dance from Olivia a couple weeks ago had sent a few stabbing pains—along with all that pleasure—straight to her gut, but she'd muscled through. No way in hell would she have missed out on that performance, even if she'd been freshly gutshot and bleeding out.

"What's that for?" Daphne asked, straightening the smaller wreath of flowers atop her head and casting an amused but deeply fond expression up at Amanda when they parted. "You been back here hitting the sauce? Got a little flask hidden away in your garter belt?"

"I wish," Amanda said, with a light laugh. But she didn't—not really. Just then, she had pretty much everything she ever could have asked for in life (or she would, in a few more minutes, when she slipped the wedding ring onto Olivia's finger), and she didn't have to drink, smoke, or gamble to get it. She realized, all at once, what the feeling was that she'd woken up with this morning; that kept her humming "You Shook Me All Night Long" the entire time she primped and preened for this moment; that inspired her spontaneous embrace with Daphne a second ago: Happiness.

Happiness like she'd never known, and in the form of a person she never could have dreamed existed—at least not for her, anyway.

"I'm just . . . " She fingered the lighthouse charm that hung from a silver chain around her neck, the smooth shard of pale blue sea glass nestled behind it. What had Olivia said when she clasped it on her?

_I was unmoored. Drifting out there with nothing to hold onto. You're the light that showed me the way back home._

If she was Olivia's guiding light, Olivia was the open and endless sky that allowed her to shine. She'd put that in her vows and it was the reason she had suggested the color scheme of their wedding: white, yellow, blue. The shades of a sunny sky stretching out into infinity. And that infinity the size of her love for Olivia Benson.

"I'm just really happy," she concluded, and donned the huge smile to prove it. Today, she didn't care if her emotions were on display for everyone to see. Let 'em look.

"Good. You should be. I saw your intended a minute ago, and I'm not saying I was tempted to whisk her away to a secluded island somewhere, never to return, but . . . " Daphne shook her hand in the air as if she'd touched something hot, making the same face guys made when they turned to check out a hot girl's thong at the beach. "I might have booked a private jet on my way in here."

"Really? Even on my wedding day?" Amanda lifted an eyebrow at her petite friend's reflection, but her smile took on a sly tilt and she leaned towards Daphne in a secretive stance. "She looked that good, huh?"

Daphne pretended to bite her knuckle and momentarily crossed her eyes, this time imitating the men in screwball comedies who lusted after beautiful women they could never attain. Yep, even on Amanda's wedding day, Daphne was going to drool over her bride. This could be Amanda's funeral, and the clerk would probably _still_ hit on Olivia. "So good," she groaned, but when her eyes came back into focus, she let them travel appreciatively over Amanda, top to bottom. "You're none too shabby yourself there, peaches."

Smirking, Amanda opened her mouth for a sassy retort, and instead heard herself say, "Thanks, Daph. For . . . everything."

"Oh, no. Don't you dare do that." Daphne held up her finger at Amanda's softening expression and took a step back, shaking her curly little bob. "If you start crying, I'll start crying. I am not going back out there looking like Alice Cooper."

"I ain't gonna cry," Amanda crabbed, even as she gazed up at the colorful faux-sky ceiling and fanned her bottom eyelashes. Lord, getting married turned her into such a girl. She shoved playfully at Daphne's shoulder when she glanced back down to find the younger woman making a pouty face at her, misty eyes twinkling merrily. "Hush up. Is it time yet?"

"Yep. Come on, Mandy Lou." Daphne held out her arm with a small debonair bow. "Let's go get your girl."

* * *

"You look so pretty, Mommy."

"You so pretty, Mommy," echoed Matilda, never to be outdone by her big sister in compliments or cuteness. She watched Jesse closely, attempting to imitate the same tiptoeing pirouette the older girl had just executed mid-gallop, yellow and white saddle shoes squeaking on the shiny rec room flooring.

The toddler's twirl was more of a drunken, circling hobble, but she beamed proudly when she faced forward again and Olivia clapped for her sweet dancing girls.

"Thank you, lovebugs." Olivia puckered her lips at them in the mirror, making kiss noises. She caught a glimpse of Noah slouched in a folding chair in the corner, scuffing his Converse sneakers for a similar screeching effect to the one Jesse had produced, the pant legs of his light blue seersucker trousers flapping idly. He plucked at his suspenders and let them snap back against his white Oxford shirt, then sighed and tugged at his yellow bow tie.

"Noah honey, don't you want to dance with your sisters?" Olivia asked gently, head tilted to one side as she adjusted the diamond studs in her ears.

A Tyler family heirloom on loan from Daphne, the earrings served as her something old, something borrowed, and something blue—beneath both studs a small circlet of diamonds surrounded a black pearl with a blue tint that matched the sapphires in the wedding ring that would soon be on her finger permanently. Nestled in the upswept sides of her otherwise loose hair were a set of silver combs adorned with blue and white crystals which she'd purchased days before because they were pretty yet inexpensive. Something new.

And then there was her boy—her other something blue. "Huh-uh," he replied, and heaved a listless sigh. He'd been sulky off and on the past few days, but this morning he hadn't wanted to get out of bed and he'd snapped at Amanda for ruffling his curls, then at Jesse for knocking over his orange juice.

Since then, he had gotten a bit lost in the shuffle of wedding preparations and last minute hiccups (Gigi getting carsick on the way to the church; Matilda's ballet flats getting left at home, requiring Carisi to race across town, and race back with a pair of dainty yellow slippers in his hand). Olivia had barely seen her son until he wandered into her makeshift dressing room moments ago, little sisters in tow, and flopped into the chair.

"But you've got that new routine you've been working on." Olivia spread a coat of clear gloss over her pale pink lips, adding a subtle wet sheen to the layer of MAC in Pretty Please. She dotted the applicator to Matilda's lips when the little girl leaned on her thigh, straining on tiptoe, mouth open wide like a baby bird. ("Ipstick, Mommy.") "You should teach it to them. They love to—"

"No," said Noah, arms folded.

Olivia fell silent as she finished dabbing some gloss to Jesse's lips. The five-year-old was being uncharacteristically compliant and girly today; apparently fancy clothes brought out her feminine side, even though she had insisted on wearing a pantsuit instead of a dress. "Tilly can wear a dress, I want that," she'd declared, pointing out the white jacquard suit at the bridal shop. And Olivia couldn't exactly say no after she had just picked out a suit herself.

Crisp pleated trousers that reached the heels of her suede pumps, a sleek buttonless blazer with satin lapels to be worn open and sleeves to be worn bunched at the elbow—all in lush white befitting of a swan. But the real showstopper was the white lace bodysuit with the nude lining that appeared to show a goodly amount of skin underneath the delicate floral designs on the bodice. It was almost too risqué for a wedding or for a fifty-three-year-old, but it should be more than enough to assuage Amanda's disappointment that she hadn't worn a dress.

She showed the girls how to rub the gloss between their lips—neither quite got the hang of it—and swiveled around on the stool to face Noah, patting her thighs briskly. "Okay, bud, come on over here. Time for a family meeting."

Noah sighed again, extracting himself from the chair as if he'd been glued to it and shuffling over with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "Ma's not here," he said, when he stood sullenly before Olivia, the mop of brown curls falling into his eyes.

"That's okay. I'll get her up to speed later." Olivia brushed back the curls and tugged him closer, lassoing Jesse and Matilda with her other arm. "For now it can just be a mommy and kiddos meeting. Sound good?"

The little girls nodded. Noah shrugged.

"Well, first off, I want you three to know how proud I am of you. You've all been such a big help getting ready for today, and you did such a good job getting yourselves dressed. You're the best looking bunch of kiddos I've ever seen."

Actually, Noah and Jesse had insisted upon dressing themselves (although, Noah did permit Uncle Fin to affix his bow tie and boutonniere). Poor Matilda had gotten caught in the crossfire and tripped into the rec room with her flower girl dress on cockeyed—courtesy of an up-and-coming young designer named Jesse Eileen—the chiffon rosettes that bloomed on the maxi skirt growing at a noticeable slant.

Olivia had rescued her youngest, settling the ribbon straps into place on the toddler's tiny shoulders, re-tying the tangled sash at her back, and fluffing the rosette skirt into a full bouquet. It was a decidedly bohemian frock, but it had been Matilda's choice, and Olivia was quietly, gently trying to foster an unshakable sense of self and decisiveness in her most amiable and permissive child.

"But I also want to make sure you guys know that today isn't going to change anything. Not in a bad way, at least." She looked at each of her children in turn, the way she did while reading them stories at bedtime, ensuring that everyone was following along. "It's definitely not going to change how much Mama and I love you. Nothing could ever do that. Ever.

"Today is just a way for Mama and me to celebrate how much we love each other. And how happy we are to be a family—which includes all three of you." Olivia tapped each child, smallest to largest, on the end of the nose with her fingertip. "So, that means it's your day to celebrate too. Kinda like . . . " She focused on Noah, glad to find him listening intently, the clouds slowly parting behind his blue, blue eyes. "Like when you learn a new dance and can't wait to show everyone at your recital. You know how excited and happy that makes you feel?"

"Yeah," Noah said, his posture relaxing a bit in Olivia's embrace. ("Yeah," agreed Jess and Tilly.) He rested his arm on her shoulder for a moment, then tentatively reached up to touch the wreath of roses and peonies that encircled her head.

"That's how your mama and I feel today. And it would make it even more special to know that you three felt that way, too."

"I do, Mommy," Jesse said automatically, her attention beginning to wane. She was watching her saddle shoes again, legs wiggling incessantly. Her mama's daughter. ("I dood, Mommy," Matilda echoed, much more content to snuggle at Olivia's side.)

That just left her eldest—her deep thinker and biggest worrier—and she looked to him with a hopeful expression that melted into relief when he assented with a faint nod, a faint smile, and said, "Me too, Mom."

Still, there was a long hesitation during which she sensed him building up to something. It made her anxious. Please don't let this be the moment he asks about his father, she thought, and held her breath. Oh, please.

"It's just . . . " Noah glanced at his sisters, then back to Olivia—or specifically, at the flowers in her hair. He pointed to them, this time without touching the petals, and scrunched a shoulder against his ear in a bashful pose. "How come I can't have one of those?"

Momentarily caught off guard, Olivia blinked at him in surprise and a bit of confusion. He had seemed pleased with his boutonniere, a sweet nosegay of white and yellow spray roses, but now he was gazing at the arrangements on her and the girls' heads with open envy.

"You want a flower crown?" she asked, careful to use a neutral tone. Being mother to a boy had proven challenging from the outset—she wanted him to have the freedom to pursue masculine interests, but without internalizing the toxic behavior that so often accompanied them; she also wanted him to appreciate and respect the feminine, without forcing her own interests on him and without worrying he would be ridiculed by his peers.

Truth be told, she'd had reservations about the dance lessons at first. And he _had_ come home crying after school one day because his former baseball teammates teased him for wearing ballet shoes. "They said I wear tutus, but I don't," he wailed, recounting the story to a sympathetic Olivia and a fuming Amanda. (Olivia thought her then-girlfriend might actually punch some second graders after that incident.)

Most of his friends were from dance class now, so the teasing had abated. Thanks to Amanda's quick thinking, pointing out that dancers were some of the strongest athletes around and even football players took ballet to develop better agility, the boy had returned to school—and the dance studio—with renewed determination. Much better than Amanda's alternative suggestion to Olivia that same evening: "Lemme at least teach him how to give those little shits atomic wedgies. Wet Willies? Purple nurples? Oh, come on!"

Yeah, her boy was going to turn out all right. And if he liked wearing flower crowns, or even a damn tutu, she wouldn't discourage him or let anyone else do it, either. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I didn't realize you wanted one. Here, you can—"

"You can wear mine, bubby," said Jesse, and tore the crown from her own head, several bobby-pins and long beach-blonde strands coming with it, and plopped the flowers on top of her brother's—her big bubby—head. "Can I wear your boot thing?"

"Boutonniere," Olivia said lightly, unpinning the sprig from Noah's eagerly extended suspender and transferring it to Jesse's lapel as she explained that the word was in fact French for buttonhole.

It occurred to her that she sounded like her mother, always correcting Olivia's grammar and providing the definition to words far beyond the range of most children's vocabularies. She decided it wasn't such a bad thing. There weren't many of her mother's traits that she cared to pass down to her kids, but she would forever be grateful to Serena for instilling in her a love of language. She could honor her mother's memory (Would Serena have been proud of her, today? Would she have stayed sober long enough to see her only daughter walk down the aisle?) by keeping that tradition alive.

Moments later, when she dabbed the stopper from a perfume bottle to her wrist, releasing only a droplet or two on her skin, and with it a scent of gardenia and citrus that evoked images of strolling through an orange grove with a basket of fresh cut blossoms, she obliged both of her daughters and their skinny, outstretched wrists. She offered the stopper to Noah, who reddened but eagerly held out his arm, bared from the elbow down by his rolled sleeves.

"Not too much, otherwise the smell is overpowering and you might sneeze your brains out," she said, demonstrating the different pulse points to rub the fragrance into. (She waited until they were busy pretending to sneeze their brains out to wet her fingertip from the bottle and swipe it through her cleavage. The rest she smudged into the soft grooves behind both ears.)

The kids were still giggling at the idea of brains shooting from their nostrils like projectile boogers when Fin called out, "Police. Open up." He paused for a beat, then added, "Y'all best be decent, I'm coming in," and poked his head into the room as if he were scanning for suspects.

He looked good. It had been a little like arm-wrestling an angry bear, talking him into wearing baby blue dress pants. The white Oxford was fine, once he discovered rolled up sleeves were encouraged. The only way he would wear a flower, though, was in the band of his porkpie hat. "I'll walk you down the aisle, Liv, and be proud as hell to do it, but you gotta let me do my thang," he had said, upon agreeing to give her away, but not to the wardrobe advice she posited. Turned out his "thang" was pretty damn stylish and didn't stray too far outside the appropriate color scheme.

"Is it time?" Olivia asked, belly suddenly aflutter with small, winged creatures too weightless for birds, too relentless for butterflies.

She hadn't worn her watch. It disturbed the line of her suit, especially with the sleeves pushed back, and for some reason, it had felt twice as heavy when she tried it on that morning. Today, she would allow nothing to weigh her down.

"It's time," Fin confirmed, and as they walked arm in arm towards the sanctuary, the children and dogs ushered to their places by a frazzled-looking Uncle Sonny, he surveyed her with an approving, dimpled grin. "Damn, Liv, if I knew you cleaned up this good, I'da married you years ago."

**. . .**


	40. Epilogue: Go with Peace and Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, guys, this is it. The final chapter. I've been having a hard time coming to terms with it—after nearly a year and a half of either writing, thinking about, editing, doing artwork for, or posting this story on a daily basis, it's like saying goodbye to a dear friend, now that it's over. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this fic (and the Devilishverse) since the beginning and left reviews and encouragement. It's so appreciated. A few of you have asked if I'll be writing anymore Devilishverse stories... I hope to. There's a lot of things I'd still like to write for my girls. If life doesn't throw me any major curveballs (knock wood) and y'all still want to read my stories, I'll see what I can do. Okay. Here we go. I hope you guys like the ending. Hit me up and lemme know!

## EPILOGUE: Go with Peace and Love

**. . .**

"Amanda, I wish I could say that from the first moment I saw you, I knew we would be standing here together. But the truth is, when you walked into my precinct ten years ago, I never would have dreamed this was possible. Not because of the cute blonde ponytail or the sassy Southern drawl—which I'll admit I'm now quite fond of—and not because you were any less extraordinary than the woman I'm marrying today.

"It was because I'd lost hope that someone like you existed. For me. I thought I'd passed up every chance at happiness, at love. The world seemed like such a bleak and lonely place, and I was convinced I was meant to walk through it alone. But then you . . . beautiful, astonishing, incorrigible you.

"You picked me up, dusted me off, and set me back on my feet again. You changed my life in ways I'm only just beginning to fathom, and I can't wait to spend the rest of it with you, figuring it all out the way we do everything best—together.

"I gave you this necklace because you helped me find my way back home. Now I'm giving you this ring because you are my home. I love you, Amanda Jo Rollins-Benson. I trust you with everything I have, with everything I am. I don't have to search for a little pretty out there in the world anymore. She's right here in front of me."

**. . .**

"Olivia . . . Liv, I'm already regrettin' telling you to go first 'cause nothing I say will ever live up to that. But that's no surprise—I wrote that line before I even heard your vows. That's how perfect I knew they'd be. Because you're perfect. I thought so from the beginning, and I'm more convinced of it now than ever.

"I know, I know, you hate it when I say that. You think your singing voice could peel paint off the walls, and your taste in Netflix series is kind of atrocious— oh wait, that's me who thinks that. But caterwaulin' and weird sci-fi shows aside, you are the most amazing person I ever met. You make me better than I am just by knowing you.

"Oh Lord, okay, now we're both gonna cry. Okay, um . . . oh, and I f-feel so lucky that I get to spend the rest of my life showing you h-how special you are, each and every day. I promise I'll always be there to do that. Always.

"You s-said I was the light that guided you back home, but darlin', you're the reason I shine at all. Can't have a sun or stars without a sky to hold 'em up. That's you. My city girl. My clear blue sky for miles and miles. Until they find a way to stop time or pull down the sun, they're never gonna keep us apart. Let's shine."

* * *

There wasn't a dry eye in the sanctuary as they recited their vows, other than Fin's, the kids', and the dogs' (though Gigi's big brown eyes did look a tad misty and she broke loose from Jesse to insert her snout between Olivia and Amanda when the pastor announced their first kiss as married women).

Someone in attendance hooted his approval of the kiss, and Olivia had the sneaking suspicion it was Rafa, who grinned at her from the front pew. Spiffy as ever in a double-breasted pinstripe, his wilderness beard was freshly shorn—thank God—and he looked so much like the old ADA Rafael Barba, she wouldn't have been surprised if he stood up and gave a closing argument during the recessional.

Fortunately, he did not, opting instead to allow Sarah Bareilles the final word, singing the guests out to the front steps of the church to the tune of "I Choose You":

" _My whole heart  
__Will be yours forever  
__This is a beautiful start  
__To a lifelong love letter . . . "_

The newlyweds made it through the gauntlet of bubbles—an environmentally friendly send-off alternative to tossed rice, chosen for the children's enjoyment and because neither bride wanted to end up with birdseed or biodegradable confetti in their bras—and drove themselves and their brood to the reception hall in Amanda's Jeep. The department had issued Olivia a new SUV, after Henry Mesner totaled the old one, but she'd come to rely on the detective's vehicle and driving in the interim. Maybe she would chauffeur them to the airport tomorrow morning, just to be sure she wasn't getting rusty behind the wheel.

Until a week ago, honeymooning in the Cayman Islands had seemed like a pipe dream. Less than—it hadn't even been considered. They would make do with a long weekend in Cape Cod, freezing their hind ends off at some little B&B along the coast. In mid-March. In Massachusetts.

But then Rafa had appeared like a smug, dapper little angel, waving a pair of tickets to the Caymans that he just happened to have on hand from a family friend in Cuba who just happened to have an empty vacation villa on Grand Cayman. Amanda was going to get her wish to see Olivia's fifty-three-year-old ass parading around the beach in a sexy two-piece after all. And whatever else happened down in those warm white sands would be strictly between Olivia, Amanda, and the Caribbean Sea.

Dancing commenced almost at once, after the toasts (Daphne had 'em rolling in the aisles); the best chicken piccata pasta outside of Italy (Jesse consumed so much of Mrs. Carisi's bruschetta, she was in danger of needing her stomach pumped); and what else but an Italian wedding cake, two-tiered and decorated as professionally as anything you'd find in the display window of a Milan bakery (both brides kept their promise not to smoosh the cake in each other's face).

"Have I mentioned how insanely hot and gorgeous and beautiful you look right now?" Amanda murmured against Olivia's ear as they eased into the slow, swaying rhythm of the music like they were already dipping their toes in the turquoise waters of Seven Mile Beach. "I don't know what that thing you're wearing is called, but sweet Lord in heaven, please tell me it's comin' with us to the islands."

For their first dance, they had agreed upon the Chris Stapleton ballad "Tennessee Whiskey," the song they'd shared their first official slow dance to, in the parking lot of a honkytonk late last summer. It hadn't escaped Olivia's notice that the majority of their reception playlist contained country music anthems. She had chosen half of them herself.

"I think it's called a bodysuit," she chuckled lightly, her cheeks warming at the sight of twelve sets of eyes—neither Cragen or Munch had been out of town, it so happened; they were the only "extended family" invited—focused on her during a rather intimate conversation. Thankfully the guests were far enough away, the music loud enough in the small banquet hall, no one else could overhear.

For the moment, Olivia and Amanda were in their own private world.

"Or maybe a bustier? Anyway, I've got something much better for our honeymoon, love," she confided, turning her lips to Amanda's ear and kissing the perfect pink shell that peeked out from beneath blonde waves. In the pale strands, she could already smell the sun, sand, and surf. "Just consider this the appetizer."

As Stapleton sent his signature note aloft ( _"'Cause there's nothing like your love to get me high"_ ), Amanda rumbled something along the lines of "Oh my Lord, woman," and tipped Olivia back in a playful, shallow dip that left them both giggling and a bit breathless. Gradually, the detective was regaining her strength, and she had just enough to prevent them from toppling over with that ambitious move.

By the final repetition of the chorus, guests had begun to filter onto the dance floor, each awaiting their chance to cut in with one of the brides—Daphne and Kat, however, only seemed to have eyes for each other since the night of the bachelorette party—but it was the youngest members of the group who got to do the honors.

"May we cut in?"

A tentative tap on the shoulder drew Olivia's attention behind her, where Noah stood with Matilda on his hip and Jesse at his side. He glanced back at Fin for confirmation that he'd phrased the question appropriately and grinned up from beneath his cheerful flower crown when he received a double thumbs-up.

"Yeah, may we?" Jesse asked.

"May we?" Matilda echoed. She stretched out her tiny arms, pale and slender as the limbs of a fawn, to Olivia, but squealed in delight to be intercepted by Amanda.

"C'mere you little French baby," said the detective, eliciting more chime-like giggles and squeals by pretending to gobble the child up in the same manner as Frannie on a ham bone. She hugged Matilda snugly between herself and Olivia, threatening to squish the poor thing senseless. Matilda was thrilled. "Mmm, you smell just like your mommy."

"Me too!" Jesse plastered herself against her mothers' sides, extended an arm high into the air, and leapt, waving her wrist under Amanda's nose. "Mommy put-ed her perfume on us. Even Bubby got some!"

Amanda dodged the heel of the little girl's upthrust hand just in time to avoid contact—and a potential broken nose. "Lord, child," she muttered, but acquiesced to a sniff and an exaggerated hum of approval. She rested her hand on Jesse's back, patting the long golden mane there, of which neither she nor Olivia could bear to see even an inch altered, and offered Noah a soft smile. "That right, son?"

The boy hung back with uncertainty, until Olivia reached for him, gathering him into the tight little clutch of swaying bodies, their gentle rhythm reminding her of a rocking cradle, the angelic harmonies of Little Big Town their lullaby. His family. _Her_ family. Right then, with his head cushioned at her breast and her arms full of love, she felt like the richest woman in the world.

"Uh-huh," Noah said, melting easily into the group. He looped an arm around Olivia's waist, the other around Amanda's, effectively smashing Jesse's face into the huddle. "Is that okay, Ma?"

"Yup." Amanda nodded decidedly, then smiled over at her wife. She took Olivia's hand as they continued to dance, knotting it with hers behind the older children's backs, completing the circle. "I think that's just fine."

* * *

The pineapple wedge slid off the toothpick end of Amanda's cocktail umbrella and plopped wetly against her bare chest, right next to one of the small black triangles that comprised her bikini top ("You know eyepatches aren't meant to be worn on your nipples, right, love?" Olivia had teased, a wicked grin on her sun-kissed lips, when she got her first glimpse of the two-piece. The freckle on her top lip was adorably, irresistibly pronounced in the warm Caribbean light).

"Aw man," Amanda said, without much conviction. She started to pluck up the fruit slice, still planning to deposit it in her mouth, along with the two cherries also pierced on the paper parasol that served as a mai tai garnish. Probably tasted like coconut oil now, but she could live with that.

Olivia had other ideas. "I got it," she said, prowling on all fours above Amanda and somehow managing not to overturn the hammock as it lolled beneath them. She tweaked at the stretchy black string that coupled the skimpy triangles she had deemed eyepatches, as if it might twang like a steel guitar. "You just lie back and let me handle this, Blackbeard."

Like she had any room to talk. The cups of her halter-style bikini top were filled to capacity—and then some—the ruched bottoms hugging her full hips enticingly, the little flounce on her shapely backside too cute for words. There were honest-to-God yellow polka dots sprinkled all over the icing white two-piece.

Olivia Rollins-Benson looked like a cupcake. Good enough to eat.

"Aye aye, Cap'n," said Amanda, her smile and her legs stretched out luxuriously, fingers interlaced behind her head.

Then Olivia dipped down to retrieve the chunk of pineapple with her teeth. When she reemerged, the bright yellow fruit clasped between her lips, it reminded Amanda of buried treasure, of infinite riches. It reminded her of gold.

**. . .**

**THE END**


End file.
